"It's a mysterious transaction altogether. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. There were all varieties of bird-life known in these latitudes, from the bird of paradise down to the tiny scarlet-beaked love-birds. One little minute with soap and water, voilà tout. “Yeah. Apparently she was always doomed to weep when she talked to her father. 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.
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