She was weeping now. “I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said. Their future would be glorious; he saw it in their eyes; he saw it in the beauty of their young heads. 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.
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