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Updated: April 30, 2025
"You dirty-mouthed cur," said Pan. "Get up, and if you've got a gun throw it." Hardman laboriously got to his feet. The breath had been partly knocked out of him. Baleful eyes rolled at Pan. Instinctive wrath, however, had been given a setback. Hardman had been forced to think of something beside the frustration of his imperious will. "I'm not packing my gun," he panted, heavily.
They were the nucleus of what was spoken of as Quinnion's crowd. "Quinnion," said Lee quietly, "you are a damned dirty-mouthed liar." The words came like little slaps in the face. Of the four men still in the room with Quinnion three of them moved swiftly to one side, their eyes on their leader's face, which showed nothing of what might lie in his mind.
She promptly swung a brisk right toe, kicked the burly youth under the chin, and flattened him out. "That'll learn you to call me names!" she snarled. "So long as I act like a lady, I'm a-gonna be treated like one, and I'll break the neck of the man who acts different, and you can stick a pin in that, you dirty-mouthed beast!"
And that, doubtless, was why she stood there with the self-possession of a Grand Duchess, surveying that dirty-mouthed, dirty-clothed rabble of the Fishmarket, and perking her lips disparagingly when some one noticed her real pearl earrings, or the Algerian scarf, or the red-flannel petticoat from Gibraltar the Rector had given her!
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