Wood lifted up his hands in mute despair. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me. Her father was right: Ruth must never know. But I want to know what you are doing. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. But after all, Mrs. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. After some time, the scuffle grew more and more distant, until nothing could be heard.
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