Cathy reached out and touched Lucy’s chin with her two fingers, gently commanding her attention. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination. 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. “I know nothing whatever of his friends or his home.
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