This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. ‘Wait a minute, though. "What is it?" demanded the woollen-draper, as he returned to the table, and took up a glass. Manning leaned forward on the table, talking discursively on the probable brilliance of their married life. You got to take the world as it is, and the only possible trade for a girl that isn’t sweated is to get hold of a man and make him do it for her. 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. H'm!" Over the desk, on the wall, was a map of the South Pacific archipelagoes, embossed by a number of little circles drawn in red ink. “I had found her at last, and she shot me. Stanley poured wine. To-night the subtle suggestiveness of those few daring lines, fascinating in their very simplicity, the head thrown back, the half-closed eyes—the inner meaning of the great artist seemed to come to him with a rush.
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