Pagina 321 de 439

"She thinks you're a skunk, Steve. So you are. She's dead

right--dead right--dead right. You lied to her, you coyote! Stand

up in the corner, you liar, while she whangs at you with a

six-gun! You're a skunk--dead right."

So he would run on in a variation of monotony, the strong,

supple, masterful man as helpless as a child, all the splendid

virility stricken from him by the pressure of an enemy's finger.

The eyes that she had known so full of expression, now like

half-scabbarded steel, and now again bubbling from the inner

mirth of him, were glazed and unmeaning. The girl had felt in him

a capacity for silent self-containment; and here he was, picking

at the coverlet with restless fingers, prattling foolishly, like

an infant.