‘That little kiss cost him his sanctuary, my girl, and don’t you forget it. I can wield a quarterstaff as well as a prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself at the broadsword. Red velvet curtains rustled under dim lights as the door shut with a heavy snap. The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. 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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