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The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. ” There was a moment’s silence. ‘I wish you joy of the wench. That is so awful. “Don’t!” she said, weakly, as he had bent down and put one arm about her and seized her hands with his disengaged hand and kissed her—kissed her almost upon her lips. Ruth hugged the envelope and McClintock, with the end of a burnt match, drew a cabalistic sign. His high brow was what caused all the ladies in town to covet him, it radiated intelligence but also something more primal. “She doesn’t know. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days. Sometimes she missed her cue and nodded affirmatively when the gesture should have been the reverse; and Prudence would send her a sharp glance of disapproval. ” She could practically hear the self-deprecating thoughts racing across his mind, the failed hours of rehearsed lines.
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