The air might be cool, but half an hour without head-gear was an invitation to sunstroke. 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. But if his frame was immature, his looks were not so. The babies that the woman—your wife—refused to stop creating. ‘Ha! Just the person I want. She held out the foil.
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