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 the door was suddenly thrown open, and the two janizaries felled to the ground by the strong arm of the stalwart robber. Something in her tone made him look up. ‘You give me an excellent excuse to have in the Madeira,’ said his hostess, reaching for a silver hand bell and setting it pealing. “She cannot be aware,” he continued, “that she is making herself conspicuous. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine.
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