"What is it you want?" she asked, as she held out the coat. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. Hanging about! And they start thinking and asking questions, and begin to be neither one thing nor the other. On the cords being removed, he made a desperate spring at Wild, bore him to the ground, clutched at his throat, and would, infallibly, have strangled him, if the keepers had not all thrown themselves upon him, and by main force torn him off. I—In fact, I dislike him extremely.
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