THE BRASS BOWL
"Good-by … Dan!"
Anisty held her fingers in his hard palm for an instant, rising from his chair.
"Good-by, my dear," he said clumsily.
He watched her disappear, eyes humid, temples throbbing. "By the powers!" he cried. "But she's worth it!"
Perhaps his meaning was vague, even to himself. He resumed his seat mechanically and sat for a time staring dreamily into vacancy, blunt fingers drumming on the cloth.
"No," he declared at length. "No; I'm safe enough … in her hands."
Once secure from the public gaze, the girl crowded back into a corner of the cab, as though trying to efface herself. Her eyes closed almost automatically; the curve of laughing lips became a doleful droop; a crinkle appeared between the arched brows; waves of burning crimson flooded her face and throat.
In her lap both hands lay clenched into tiny fists—clenched so tightly that it hurt, numbing her fingers:
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