But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. Every time you mention the father, she turns into marble. He could see lust virtually dripping from the dark-haired boy’s maw as she teased every last note from her shuddering violin, the devil in a black skirt. The fatal shower, from which he and his little charge escaped uninjured, had stricken his assailant and precipitated him into the boiling gulf. What had shifted his casual interest was the visible prospect of a party of three who were coming down the packet gangplank. Presently he heard her voice. “Why destroy me, child? There are so many secrets I 231 could tell you. B. ” He demanded as she opened her eyes and stopped moaning. She has not been accused of any crime. “You were born for great things,” he said huskily.
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