” She hesitated and looked for a moment straight into his eyes. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. There's my thumb upon it. She was not very clear about the position and duties of a chorus-girl, but it certainly had the air of being a last desperate resort. “You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately. 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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