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. "Won't you take these?" For a space he merely stared at her, perhaps wondering if she were real. "If any one's to blame, it's me. Now I’d like the rest of your story. " Neither man spoke. “What’s the objection?” “I suppose she ought to know?” said Gwen to her mother, trying to alter the key of the conversation.
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