“You cowards!” said Ann Veronica, “put her down!” and tore herself from a detaining hand and battered with her fists upon the big red ear and blue shoulder of the policeman who held the little old lady. She allowed herself to be ejected, therefore, and retired to the parlour after cleansing the blood from her hands and her own slight wound in the kitchen. He was shifting to reach his own weapon, which had fallen in between the pews at the back. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. “I have signed a statement that I shot myself; bad trade and drink, both true—both true. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. We were hunting and were separated from the rest of the hunters, so I said, ‘There are ways for a man to escape his wife where no one is harmed. She was marvellously pretty, but he was not quite sure—yet—that it was advisable for him to sit with her in so public a place. So far she had not heard the sound of his voice. Then suddenly with a rush came reality, came “growing up”; a hasty imperative appeal for seriousness, for supreme seriousness.
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