Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face. We’ll be somewhere on the floor above. 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. . . So far she had not heard the sound of his voice. The knife is at my breast.
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