"
She struck her hands together in a nervous rage. "You want to keep it
because you want to drink it! If you didn't want it, you'd hate to be
near it. You'd want some one to take it away. You just want to get
drunk, and be a beast. You--you--oh--you don't know what you're doing,
or how much it means! You don't know!" Her hands went up suddenly and
covered her face.
Ford walked the length of the room away from her, turned and came back
until he faced her where she stood leaning against the door, with her
face still hidden behind her palms. He reached out his arms to her,
hesitated, and drew them back.
"I wish you'd go," he said. "There are some things harder to fight than
whisky. You only make it worse."
"I'll go when you give me that." She flung a hand out toward the jug.
"You'll go anyway!" He took her by the arm, quietly pulled her away from
the door, opened it, and then closed it while, for just a breath or two,
he held her tightly clasped in his arms. Very gently, after that, he
pushed her out upon the doorstep and shut the door behind her. The lock
clicked a hint which she could not fail to hear and understand.
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