“Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. “I shan’t eat him. She’s got a great imagination. ” She looked up at him quickly. He glanced at Ruth (who had stood with her back to the wall, pinned there throughout the contest by terror and the knowledge of her own helplessness), then at the bronze menace, and calculated correctly that this particular adventure was finished. They were talking of “Alcide,” as they often did in those days. He buys his own clothes, chooses his own company, makes his own way of living.
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