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 waterman sheltered his mouth with his hand while he spoke, or his voice would have been carried away by the violence of the blast. Sheila McCloskey was the real neighborhood watch. The Return. She could stow away, go to a place where there were no people to eat and end her life.
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