" "Not at fisticuffs, perhaps," interrupted Jack, fiercely; "but I've my knife. She had just managed to reach it, grabbing for the handle, when the enemy’s cracked command halted her. ” The lights sank, the prelude to the third act was beginning, the music rose and fell in crowded intimations of lovers separated—lovers separated with scars and memories between them, and the curtain went reefing up to display Tristan lying wounded on his couch and the shepherd crouching with his pipe. ‘But with more courage in her little finger than in many another female’s entire body. "No such thing," rejoined Thames. Playing became a way of escape.
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