“Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. "If you touch me I will kill you," said Ruth, grasping the scissors which lay beside the pencils—Hoddy's! The Wastrel laughed, still advancing. To return was impossible,—to raise himself certain destruction. It is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off. What could she do? Reluctantly, at a second curt command, she began to step across the uncarpeted floor, her eyes never leaving the threatening pistol. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient.
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