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. The same teardrop bust, the same long waist, the same thick legs. Her head rose. ‘Jacques?’ she called out, forgetting the need for silence. Take him away," he added, striding up to Charcam. This was what he missed.
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