When she occupied, it, it was neatness itself; the little porch was overrun with creepers—the garden trim and exquisitely kept. 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. Ramage seemed always fencing about the forbidden topic, probing for openings, and she wondered why she did not give him them.
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