’ The lady stamped her foot. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. What was the alternative to going home? No alternative appeared in that darkness. She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. . Then he would turn his face to her, and she would have to think of herself in his eyes. What right had she to call herself “Alcide”? It was abominable, an imposture.
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