“Look here,” he said, protruding his eyes; “why get anything to do at all just yet? Why, if you must be free, why not do the sensible thing? Make yourself worth a decent freedom. On this side was a razor with which a son had murdered his father; the blade notched, the haft crusted with blood: on that, a bar of iron, bent, and partly broken, with which a husband had beaten out his wife's brains. Double-crossing wouldn't do any good. ” She put her wrists upon his shoulders, feeling him surge with the pride of his own masculinity as she touched him. That turned her mind to the more generalized aspects of her perplexities again.
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