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Ingolby asked coolly. "I know there was catastrophe, the tumblings of avalanches, but the voice that cried-the soul of a lover, was it?" The Romany's lips showed an ugly grimace. "It was the soul of one that betrayed a lover, going to eternal tortures." Ingolby laughed carelessly. "It was a fine bit of work. Sarasate would have been proud of his fiddle if he could have heard.
"It's worth anything to the man that loves it," was the Romany's response. He was mollified by the praise he had received.
A stranger is up against all kinds of things if he isn't a native, and you're not. Your home and country's a good way from here, eh?" Suddenly the Romany faced him. "Yes. I come from places far from here. Where is the Romany's home? It is everywhere in the world, but it is everywhere inside his tent. Because his country is everywhere and nowhere, his home is more to him than it is to any other.
The chaps didn't like Romany's talk about 'Possum at all. They were all fond of her: she wasn't a pet or a tomboy, for she wasn't built that way, but they were fond of her in such a way that they didn't like to hear anything said about her. They said nothing for a while, but it meant a lot. Perhaps the single men didn't care to speak for fear that it would be said that they were gone on Mary.
In turn, the despised human dog slinks in the darkness of the night into the Romany's tent, and stabs his daughter or his wife, for such is the meanness and cowardice of the Bushman that he would always rather kill a woman than a man.
"Paganini Joachim Sarasate any one, it is good enough," was the half-abstracted reply. "It is good enough for you almost, eh?" Ingolby meant his question as a compliment, but an evil look shot into the Romany's face, and the bow twitched in his hand. He was not Paganini or Sarasate, but that was no reason why he should be insulted.
The Romany hesitated, then shook his head and muttered chaotically. "Very well," was the decisive reply. Ingolby pressed a bell, and, in an instant, Jim Beadle was in the room. He had evidently been at the keyhole. "Jim," he said, "show the gentleman out." But suddenly he caught up a box of cigars from the table and thrust it into the Romany's hands.
Ingolby asked coolly. "I know there was catastrophe, the tumblings of avalanches, but the voice that cried-the soul of a lover, was it?" The Romany's lips showed an ugly grimace. "It was the soul of one that betrayed a lover, going to eternal tortures." Ingolby laughed carelessly. "It was a fine bit of work. Sarasate would have been proud of his fiddle if he could have heard.
"It's worth anything to the man that loves it," was the Romany's response. He was mollified by the praise he had received.
"Paganini Joachim Sarasate any one, it is good enough," was the half-abstracted reply. "It is good enough for you almost, eh?" Ingolby meant his question as a compliment, but an evil look shot into the Romany's face, and the bow twitched in his hand. He was not Paganini or Sarasate, but that was no reason why he should be insulted.
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