It was Celeste’s idea. He glanced at Ruth (who had stood with her back to the wall, pinned there throughout the contest by terror and the knowledge of her own helplessness), then at the bronze menace, and calculated correctly that this particular adventure was finished. Something like a snarl crossed his face, and ignoring the pistol, he moved forward, seizing her shoulders. I'm going through his pockets. To be confronted with the girl’s damned Frenchman of a husband was another matter altogether.
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