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. Spurling bit her lips to conceal her mirth. This person was speedily followed by half a dozen others, some of whom carried flambeaux. Wood could stand it no longer. “She’s going to have some sort of meal with the Widgetts down the Avenue, and go up with them. She fell into a deep delirium, whispering hoarsely to her dead mother, cursing God in Heaven, cursing her doctor, cursing herself as apparitions of devils and demons pulled at her with yellow ochre hands.
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