What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. 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. I can't concentrate on my work. Her amusement fled and she stared at him, as a slow thump began beating at her breast. One married as he wished and one against his wishes, and now here was Ann Veronica, his little Vee, discontented with her beautiful, safe, and sheltering home, going about with hatless friends to Socialist meetings and art-class dances, and displaying a disposition to carry her scientific ambitions to unwomanly lengths. Then, one night, he glanced up to behold Ruth and Rollo in the doorway. .
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