The pistol, it was not loaded. "The poor young man!" sighed Angelina. 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. And he had destroyed all this. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears.
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