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. . ’ ‘Slaughtered with the rest, was she?’ Despite his hatred of the woman who had caused so much grief, the general found he could not rejoice as he wanted to. He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him.
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