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. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. He could not tell by the look of her whether she was glad or sorry that presently she would be free.
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