She tugged at my coat and said, ‘I know of the blue-eyed maid. I could never make you understand. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. Even in death, Vorsack was not a man. 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 would meet him upon this ground: he should never be given the slightest hint that she was unhappy.
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