"Oh, Anthony, if you care for me, don't stay in reach of Drew! You're
breaking--"
She stopped and closed her eyes.
"Breakin' all the rules, like any tenderfoot would be expected to do."
She glanced at him, wistful, to see whether or not she had smoothed it
over; his face was a blank.
"You won't go?"
"Nope."
He insisted cruelly: "Why?"
"Because--because--well, can I leave a baby alone near a fire? Not me!"
Her voice changed. The light and the life was gone from it, but not all
the music. It was low, a little hoarse.
"I guess we can stay here tonight without no danger. And in the
morning--well, the morning can take care of itself. I'm going to turn
in."
He rose obediently and stood at the door, facing the night. From behind
came the rustle of clothes, and the sense of her followed and surrounded
and stood at his shoulder calling to him to turn. He had won, but he
began to wonder if it had not been a Pyrrhic victory.
At length: "All right, Anthony. It's your turn."
She was lying on her side, facing the wall, a little heap of clothes on
the foot of her bunk, and the lithe lines of her body something to be
guessed at--sensed beneath the heavy blanket.
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