” “It isn’t precisely faults,” said Ann Veronica. The sounds of the seashore infiltrated her dreams as she floated in heavenly bliss of sleep. 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. Jackson, gallantly.
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