“That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. 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. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self.
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