"You--you--you two-cent Willie!" he screamed.
Claire pretended not to see or hear. In reality she was acutely
conscious of every move he made, for, small as he was, his pent-in rage
gave him a strength she might well fear to put to the test. It was the
tug of war. The question was, who would be conqueror?
Through the short hours of the winter forenoon, hours that seemed as
interminable to Claire as they did to Radcliffe, the battle raged. There
was no sign of capitulation on either side.
In the course of the morning, and during one of Radcliffe's fiercest
outbreaks, Claire took up the telephone instrument and quietly
instructed Shaw to bring no luncheon-trays to the schoolroom at
mid-day.
"Two glasses of hot milk will be all we need," she said, whereupon
Radcliffe leaped upon her, trying to wrest the transmitter from her
hand, beating her with his hard little fists.
"I won't drink milk! I won't! I won't!" he shouted madly. "An' I'll
_kill_ you, if you won't let me have my lunch, you--you--you
_mizzer'ble_ two-cent Willie!"
As the day drew on, his white face grew flushed, her fevered one white,
and both were haggard and lined from the struggle.
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