Her little white hand stole across the table. Depend upon it, there is a place for you—waiting. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. The pause lengthened, and he had the satisfaction of seeing despair melt the set mockery of Spurlock's mouth. Because of the Dance. For a few minutes, Darrell seemed to have the advantage in the conflict. He daren't quarrel with me: and if he does, let him look to himself. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted. Every house-top, every window, every wall, every projection, had its occupants.
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