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 decided not to ask him outright if he wished to make love to her. He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love.
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