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McCutcheon, George Barr, 1866-1928

"West Wind Drift"

Some of these men are beasts."
"Then, there's hell to pay," he grated.
They reached her cabin just as the door was thrown open. The three
startled coryphees filled the entrance. Recognition was followed
by a clatter of agitated voices. Olga was fairly dragged into the
cabin.
"Bolt your door," was Percival's command as he turned away.
She stood in the door for a moment, looking after him. He passed
out of the radius of light. The chorus of voices grew louder down
the way,--like the make-believe mob in the theatre.
Then she closed the door slowly, reluctantly. The three girls watched
her in silence as she stood for many seconds with her hand on the
knob, her eyes tightly shut.
She turned and faced them. There was a wry smile on her lips as
she shrugged her shoulders and spread out her hands in a gesture
of resignation.
"Yes,--bolt the door," she said. As Alma hesitated, her eyes grew
hard, her voice imperative. "Do you know of any reason why you
should not do as both Mr. Percivail and I have commanded?"
"No,--no, Madame," cried Alma hastily.
As the heavy wooden bolt fell into place, Olga again shrugged her
shoulders and threw herself into a chair in front of the fireplace.


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