A slow heavy thumping started up in Melusine’s chest, and she scarcely took in the astonished silence in those present in the room. They conversed, or more or less she interviewed him. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. “Let us go to that little place at the back of the Palace. .
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