By a miracle, he averted its path, his hold on the girl’s mouth shifting fast to grasp her wrist. He wanted to know what the joke against him was—if any. 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. The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. He had just passed through a terrific physical test. .
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