But what he could do or might do she could not imagine. She also knew that he was the type who would not make a single physical overture until she pushed the correct buttons. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. “This ain’t no place for you. I have fulfilled my part of our marriage contract. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. 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.
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