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She was afraid that she belittled herself in Dyckman's eyes when she let slip the remorseful Wail, "I wish I had been kinder to the poor boy!" But she did not belittle herself in any such tendernesses of regret. She endeared herself by her grief, her self-reproach, her childish humility before the power of death. Her tears were beautiful in Jim's sight.
Only two names came to Charity's searching mind Jim Dyckman's impossible name and one that was so sublimely unfit that she laughed as she uttered it. "There's the Reverend Doctor Mosely." Hodshon tried to laugh. "I was reading head-lines of a sermon of his. He's down on divorce." "That's why he'd be the ideal witness," said Charity. "But would he come?" "Of course not," she laughed.
There was not going to be time for a bout, and the gallery was bigger than Dyckman had expected. He went in hell-for-leather. He felt a mighty satisfaction when his good left hand slashed through Cheever's ineffectual palms, reached that perky little mustache and smeared that amiable mouth with blood. In the counterblow the edge of Cheever's cuff caught on Dyckman's knuckles and ripped the skin.
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