Rhea writhed and scuttled about like a crab. “I ought to have done anything! “What’s a man for? “Friendship!” He doubled up his fist, and seemed to contemplate thrusting it through the window. ‘Parbleu, do you think he will run away? He has a bullet inside him, and it must be taken out. There are way-stations—even terminals. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney. ‘This from a man who calls himself my friend. Later, at the bottom of that envelope I found a letter. It is the same man, for he raved in the hospital, and they fetched me. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion.
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