“Will you be moral and your species, or immoral and yourself? We’ve decided to be immoral. No more scuffling. I jumped then—I was not even shaken. “I cut off his right hand pinky with his own rusty bolt cutter. Ramage!” she cried, and struggled to her feet. " "It may be; but if it shortens the distance and lightens the journey, I care not," retorted the widow, who seemed by this reproach to be roused into sudden eloquence. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment.
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