I can stop the run on his bank and the drop in his stock. I can
fight the gang that's against him--I know how. I'm the man that can bring
things to pass."
He paused with a sly, mean smile of self-approval and conceit, and his
tongue licked the corners of his mouth in a way that drunkards have in
the early morning when the effect of last night's drinking has worn off.
He spread out his hands with the air of a man who had unpacked his soul,
but the chief characteristic of his manner was egregious belief in
himself.
At first, in her desire to find a way to meet the needs of Ingolby, Fleda
had listened to him with fortitude and even without revolt. But as he
began to speak of women, and to refer to herself with a look of gloating
which men of his breed cannot hide, her angry pulses beat hard. She did
not quite know where he was leading, but she was sure he meant to say
something which would vex her beyond bearing. At one moment she meant to
cut short his narrative, but he prevented her, and when at last he ended,
she was almost choking with agitation. It had been borne in upon her as
his monologue proceeded, that she would rather die than accept anything
from this man--anything of any kind. To fight him was the only thing.
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