They became aware of the waitress standing over them with book and pencil ready for their bill. She found Rhea trapped under a rock, her skeletal head exposed. After all, she only LOOKED a woman. Above the work-table was a drop-light—kerosene. “Because I hate you!” She spat. He had a quick, shrewd, merry eye, and a look in which duplicity was agreeably veiled by good humour.
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