She stabbed him with her canines. Her aunt glanced up startled, and then sat very still, with hands that had ceased to work. Still, his conscience was partly satisfied. It wouldn’t be you. Empty, silly, coarse brutes. CHAPTER XXI. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader. “You little wretch!” she exclaimed weakly. The hand which the man had been holding hung limp and nerveless at her side. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself.
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