“What?” he said, almost overcome.
“You’ve got to choose!” she cried, as if it were some terrible menace, and as if it hurt her that she could not exact more.
“What?” he said, in fear.
“Choose your girl, Coddy. You’ve got to choose her now. And you’ll get your neck broken if you play any more of your tricks, my boy. You’re settled now.”
There was a pause. Again he averted his face. He was cunning in his overthrow. He did not give in to them really—no, not if they tore him to bits.
“All right, then,” he said, “I choose Annie.” His voice was strange and full of malice. Annie let go of him as if he had been a hot coal.
“He’s chosen Annie!” said the girls in chorus.
“Me!” cried Annie. She was still kneeling, but away from him. He was still lying prostrate, with averted face. The girls grouped uneasily around.
“Me!” repeated Annie, with a terrible bitter accent.
Then she got up, drawing away from him with strange disgust and bitterness.