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Parrish, Randall, 1858-1923

"Beth Norvell A Romance of the West"

I
despise him--that is all. He is unworthy the thought of any woman."
The slender figure of the Mexican swayed as though stricken by a blow,
the fierce, tigerish passion dying out of her face, her free hand
seeking her throat as though choking.
"Nothing?" she gasped, incredulously. "_Sapristi_, I think you lie,
senorita. Nothing? Vy you go to him in secret? Vy you stay and talk
so long? I not understand."
"He sent for me; he wished me to aid him in a business matter."
The other stared incredulous, her form growing rigid with gathering
suspicion that this fair American was only endeavoring to make her a
fool through the use of soft speech. The white teeth gleamed again
maliciously.
"You speak false to Mercedes," she cried hotly, her voice trembling.
"Vy he send for you, senorita? You know him?"
There was a bare instant of seeming hesitation, then the quiet, better
controlled voice answered soberly:
"Yes, in the East, three years ago."
Like a flash of powder, the girl of the hot-blooded South burst into
fresh flame of passion, her foot stamping the floor, her black eyes
glowing with unrestrained anger.


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