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Widdemer, Margaret, 1884-1978

"The Wishing-Ring Man"

There wouldn't
be a thing left of you when she got through.
"I feel as alone as Robinson Crusoe," thought Joy forlornly.
She rose restlessly and picked up the tray which had borne their
illegal sandwiches, with the idea of carrying it and herself out of
sight. She wanted a minute to brace herself in.
As she did it, Allan rose, too, unexpectedly, as he did most things.
"Here, I'll take some of those," he offered, and helped her carry
the debris out.
They set down their burdens on a pantry table, whence three
scandalized maids whisked them somewhere else again, gazing the
while reproachfully at the invaders.
"I haven't any use for that girl," stated Allan plainly, as they
went back. "Don't let her fuss you, Joy."
Joy looked gratefully up at him. The whole world, then, didn't
prefer Gail Maddox to her!
"She makes me feel exactly like a small dog that has stolen a bone and
got caught," Joy acknowledged directly, with a little shamefaced laugh.
"She'll do her best in that line," responded Allan, who seemed to
have no great affection for the lady. "Don't let her bother you.
He's your bone--hang on to him. In short, sic 'em!"
They both laughed, and Joy came back with her bronze head high and
an access of fresh courage. She sat down this time between John and
the cousin, whose name she had not heard. But she began talking hard
to him. Occasionally she tossed John, fenced in beside her, a
cheerful word.


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