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 drew it, impeding the swift movement of her hand.

"Strike!" Nearing shouted, his loud, hoarse voice vibrant with eagerness.

Findlay caught her wrist, holding her hopelessly in his invincible grip. The knife fell to the floor. Alma sobbed as she struggled to tear away, writhing and fighting in the great strength of her baffled rage.

Nearing plunged in to reach the knife; Findlay drove a terrific kick into his stomach, stretching him on the floor.

"Go on—marry us!" Findlay ordered, scowling across at Thomson, who stood well behind his barrier of table, out of the sudden fight.

Findlay held Alma's wrists, one crossed over the other, his fingers hard as oak, it seemed, and hopeless to unclasp. Thomson came forward, lifting his eyebrows as he peered over his glasses, to see that Nearing was not rising with the knife.

"Go on! Marry us, damn you!" Findlay repeated.

In the kitchen a great turmoil of shots and shouting suddenly rose. Teresa rushed into the room as Findlay, still holding his grip on Alma's wrists, turned to see who came so rudely upon his wedding hour.

"Sweet Mother of God!" Teresa cried, spreading her arms to receive her dove, restored to her heart unsullied.

Barrett stood in the door.