THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
rude. The cave-woman was beating him with her fists, wild passion in every stroke.
"Let me go! I—can't—breathe! You are hurting me!"
He released her, though he retained hold of a forearm so powerfully that the marks of his fingers were visible for days.
The transition into the caveman period had been instantaneous, but it was not possible to recover except by slow degrees. So when he spoke to her he spoke consistently.
"Are you a fool? Didn't you know it was death? What in God's name were you about?"
"I had to come! It kept calling and calling! I couldn't help it! … How dare you call me a fool?" she blazed out.
"Well, if I ever saw one!"
"Let go my arm!"
"Not until I get you safe inside. You come with me."
She fought him all the way around to the smoke-room door. He opened it and pushed her roughly over the high threshold and followed.
"You have hurt me!"
"Sure I have. Hell! By rights you ought to be crumpled up without a whole bone in your body. One slip, one misstep. … Don't you know anything?"
"You have called me a fool."
"Uh-huh. You go below and change your clothes."
"You are insolent!"
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