“What a little brick!” he murmured. 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. “We are the music and you are the instrument,” she said; “we are verse and you are prose. "Eggs for me! You mistake, child. ‘It is in truth you?’ ‘Of course it is I. Ladies with weapon’s on ’em. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. “Soul to soul. Tell the whole truth.
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