"They've got me strapped down in the press. At ten o'clock
in the morning--precisely at ten--they're going to put on the screws." I
laughed. "I guess they'll have me squeezed pretty dry before noon."
She shivered.
"So, you see," I continued, "I don't deserve any credit for giving you up.
I only anticipate you by about twenty-four hours. Mine's a deathbed
repentance."
"I'd thought of that," said she reflectively. Presently she added: "Then,
it is true." And I knew Sammy had given her some hint that prepared her for
my confession.
"Yes--I can't go blustering through the matrimonial market," replied I.
"I've been thrown out. I'm a beggar at the gates."
"A beggar at the gates," she murmured.
I got up and stood looking down at her.
"Don't _pity_ me!" I said. "My remark was a figure of speech. I want
no alms. I wouldn't take even you as alms. They'll probably get me down,
and stamp the life out of me--nearly. But not quite--don't you lose sight
of that. They can't kill me, and they can't tame me. I'll recover, and I'll
strew the Street with their blood and broken bones."
She drew in her breath sharply.
"And a minute ago I was almost liking you!" she exclaimed.
I retreated to my chair and gave her a smile that must have been grim.
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