"
Neale threw the cards in the man's face; then, rising, he bent over
to slap him so violently as to knock him off his chair.
The crash stilled the room. Every man turned to watch.
Neale stood up, his right arm down, menacingly. The gambler arose,
cursing, but made no move to draw a weapon.
Beauty Stanton could not, to save her life, speak the words she
wanted to say. Something impeding, totally unexpected, seemed to
have arisen.
"Neale--come with--me!" was all she could say.
"No!" he declared, vehemently, with a gesture of disgust and anger.
That, following the coarse implication of the gambler, conveyed to
Stanton what all these men imagined. The fools! The fools! A hot
vibrating change occurred in her emotion, but she controlled it.
Neale turned his back upon her. The crowd saw and many laughed.
Stanton felt the sting of her pride, the leap of her blood. She was
misunderstood, but what was that to her? As Neale stepped away she
caught his arm--held him while she tried to get close to him so she
could whisper. He shook her off. His face was black with anger. He
held up one hand in a gesture that any woman would have understood
and hated. It acted powerfully upon Beauty Stanton. Neale believed
she was importuning him. To him her look, whisper, touch had meant
only the same as to these coarse human animals gaping and grinning
as they listened.
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