“I think,” she said, “that I rather like what you have said. The slack of her ridinghabit and full under-petticoats was gathered into her left hand, and her booted ankles were visible as she held the skirts well out of her way. ‘But who was he, Gerald?’ ‘A damned condottiere,’ exploded Gerald, forgetting his company. ‘Do you think because you’ve managed to pull a gun on me—not to mention several daggers and a vicious little knife— that you can get away with it against a man who means business?’ ‘Do you think that the trigger I would not have pulled, or stuck the dagger into you, if you had not been as you are?’ she countered. Whatever happened she need never return to that possibility. Curiosity to see what a sing-song girl was like took possession of Ruth's thoughts. \" She handed the ticket seller, a boy that looked to be all of eighteen years old, murder money that she had stolen from Dawn Plote's dead son, five dollars.
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