Jessamine sat down and acted
nervous. He says:
"I'm downright sorry for this, J. R.," but Craney didn't seem to
hear, but motioned with his hand and says softly:
"You'd better clear out."
Jessamine says, "Now, we can't leave you this way."
But Craney didn't hear and says, "Call in the guard." The spearmen
came filing in, barefooted, stepping like cats, and took position on
each side, so that you could see it was according to discipline, and
maybe they'd done it every day when he'd held a court or something.
We slid back, feeling shy of the spears, and J. R. looked pleased,
and he says:
"You're narrow, Jessamine. You don't permeate. You don't expand. You
don't rise to large--Oh, Jessamine! I'm dying, and I'm sick of your
face. Tommy,"--he says, speaking hoarse and low--"you'd better go."
His eyes wandered absent-minded to the plush chair with the curtains
and chandeliers and the spearmen standing around it, and down the
long room, like he was taking his leave of things he'd thought of,
and things he'd been fond of, and things he'd hoped for, and things
he'd meant to do. He muttered and talked to himself: "I sat there,"
he said, "and I did the right thing by the people.
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