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. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. Strange, demure-looking young woman, with wonderful complexion and eyes, and a style about her, too. As matters now stand, I'm only a thief, not a blackguard. No matter what the fire and force of his passion, it falters eventually, and forever after smoulders or goes out.
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