This was unscrupulous, he admitted, because he had no intention of following through on the seductive promise in his conduct. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he said, “because we want you to do us a favour. 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. “It’s like Troy!” said a voice of rapture. They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. Michelle was in sight, Lucy could hear her voice, high in the crowd, and saw her blond head bobbing among a sea of faces. Her eyes noted it mercilessly. It was a bogus affair altogether, kept by some blackguard or other of an Englishman.
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