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. She tried not to notice how much attention Martin Chen had been paying her, but he had been bold enough to speak to her the other day. I followed you home on the train. He glanced up at the coachman.
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