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. I’d only get a pack of lies in reply. And from that they came back by way of the Kreutzer Sonata and Resurrection to Tolstoy again. “Is Larry already in bed?” Cathy nodded yes. They took their places at a distant table. In each corner stood a stout square post reaching to the ceiling.
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