" "I will yield it to no one but its mother," answered Wood. 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. “Your mother was a Gypsy. Not all of us, but some of us. "Without proper medical care, he would have been dead by morning.
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