Listening on the dimlit landing, he saw Roding’s face muscles tighten. He smiled complacently. 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. Gerald had been confident that the boy would not dream of disobeying an order thrown at him by a major of militia, but he guessed Jack might be wondering if he was about to be haled off to prison. ‘First I must see Jacques, and—’ ‘No need for that,’ intervened Roding, grasping her arm and trying to drag her to the door.
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