I’ve called half a dozen times at her flat, and she won’t see me. —Though if my name should become as famous as theirs, it wouldn't much matter. So she took up Stevenson and began to read aloud. I don’t want you to talk to me now. 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. It would be protective; it would with age turn to silver unnoticeably.
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