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"Well," said Wilmer, with slow incisiveness, "you've accomplished one thing I'd sell my name for. You've got Mary Brinsley bound to you so fast that neither lure nor lash can stir her. I've tried it tried Paris even, the crudest bribe there is. No good! She won't have me." At her name, Marshby straightened again, and there was fire in his eye.
Marshby faced them from the canvas, erect, undaunted, a soldier fronting the dawn, expectant of battle, yet with no dread of its event. He was not in any sense alien to himself. He dominated, not by crude force, but through the sustained inward strength of him. It was not youth Jerome had given him. There was maturity in the face.
Yes, I've been asking her to marry me." Marshby stiffened. His head went up, his jaw tightened. He looked the jealous ire of the male. "What do you want me to stand here for?" he asked, irritably. "But she refused me," said Wilmer, cheerfully. "Stand still, that's a good fellow. I'm using you." Marshby had by an effort pulled himself together.
Marshby himself was coming. He was no weakling. He swung along easily with the stride of a man accustomed to using his body well. He had not, perhaps, the urban air, and yet there was nothing about him which would not have responded at once to a more exacting civilization.
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