She was shifting, moving back. Darrell stood erect in the bark, with his drawn sword in hand, prepared to repel the attack of his assailants, who, in their turn, seemed to await with impatience the moment which should deliver him into their power. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. She had been to San Francisco, and what I learned about the world was from her. You know how those Russian students do? In Russia. ” “Not in the least,” she assured him. She made no answer, and for a time he debated some problems with himself.
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