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. Peg after peg had gone down his blistered throat, but never had a smile touched his lips, never had his gaze roved inquisitively. It seemed to emanate from the back of the house. ‘Her own,’ Gerald replied. Stanley pronounced, and seemed to hesitate whether he had not gone too far.
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