The Tigress went prowling for nut, too. In all her life no living thing had had to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. He had been dreaming of Ruth—an old recurrency of that dream he had had in Canton, of Ruth leading him to the top of the mountain. He bullied frankly.
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