The detective rapidly sketched the appearance of the room in his notebook, and picked up the pistol from under the table. 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. She made noises between weeping and laughter as she went. “I don’t think she will,” she said.
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