‘Well, water under the bridge is that, miss. ‘Where is Gérard?’ ‘Out of town,’ Hilary said briefly. But I don’t want to. 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 we’re going to fight that old world down there.
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