He glanced at Ruth (who had stood with her back to the wall, pinned there throughout the contest by terror and the knowledge of her own helplessness), then at the bronze menace, and calculated correctly that this particular adventure was finished. “Excuse me a moment. I can get that at the bar," the manager said, curtly. She shrugged her shoulders. "The Beachcombers. They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection.
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