’ ‘Eh bien, it is your fault entirely in this case. 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. And there was another matter. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. I'll dispose of the brat. No, I thank you.
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