S. Sheppard left Mr. Finally Lucy replied. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. 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. Courtlaw rose to his feet. I didn’t know.
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