'And are you afraid of nothing else, Pussum?' asked the young Russian,
in his quick, hushed, elegant manner.
'Not weally,' she said. 'I am afwaid of some things, but not weally the
same. I'm not afwaid of BLOOD.'
'Not afwaid of blood!' exclaimed a young man with a thick, pale,
jeering face, who had just come to the table and was drinking whisky.
The Pussum turned on him a sulky look of dislike, low and ugly.
'Aren't you really afraid of blud?' the other persisted, a sneer all
over his face.
'No, I'm not,' she retorted.
'Why, have you ever seen blood, except in a dentist's spittoon?' jeered
the young man.
'I wasn't speaking to you,' she replied rather superbly.
'You can answer me, can't you?' he said.
For reply, she suddenly jabbed a knife across his thick, pale hand. He
started up with a vulgar curse.
'Show's what you are,' said the Pussum in contempt.
'Curse you,' said the young man, standing by the table and looking down
at her with acrid malevolence.
'Stop that,' said Gerald, in quick, instinctive command.
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