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"Well?" Both hands of the clock pointed perpendicularly to
midnight, and it was high time he was getting down to the water-hole.
"Oh!" Freda started, and she did it prettily, delighting him as
his fellows have ever been delighted by their womankind. When a
man is made to believe that a woman, looking upon him
thoughtfully, has lost herself in meditation over him, that man
needs be an extremely cold-blooded individual in order to trim his
sheets, set a lookout, and steer clear.
"I was just wondering what you wanted to see me about," he
explained, drawing his chair up to hers by the table.
"Floyd," she looked him steadily in the eyes, "I am tired of the
whole business. I want to go away. I can't live it out here till
the river breaks. If I try, I'll die. I am sure of it. I want
to quit it all and go away, and I want to do it at once."
She laid her hand in mute appeal upon the back of his, which
turned over and became a prison. Another one, he thought, just
throwing herself at him. Guess it wouldn't hurt Loraine to cool
her feet by the water-hole a little longer.
"Well?" This time from Freda, but softly and anxiously.
"I don't know what to say," he hastened to answer, adding to
himself that it was coming along quicker than he had expected.
"Nothing I'd like better, Freda. You know that well enough." He
pressed her hand, palm to palm. She nodded. Could she wonder
that she despised the breed?
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