At the door to the kitchen, he called out, ‘Pottiswick!’ The old man came out, shoving his chin in the air and glaring. All that confidence, born of irony, disappeared; and fear laid hold of him. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. Or else—Else it will be impossible that I can be his friend. He put his free arm around her and held the censer ready; and as Ruth snuggled her cheek against his sleeve, they were, so far as intent, in each other's arms.
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