Mike and Shari sat at the kitchen table eating potato chips. ‘Have you any more pretty toys like that knife about you?’ ‘The girl’s a regular arsenal,’ Hilary snapped, giving up into his senior’s hand the nasty little weapon he had snatched. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. For nothing will ever convince me that it is not the man’s share in life to shield, to protect, to lead and toil and watch and battle with the world at large. “I will be off,” she declared. She decided to call in the help of Teddy Widgett, or, failing him, of one of his sisters. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous.
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