When we drew up at my front door, it occurred to me that there was no Marigold in attendance.
"How the deuce," said I, "am I going to get out ?" Boyce laughed.

"I don't think I'll drop you." His great arms picked me up with ease.

But while he was carrying me I experienced a singular physical revolt.

I loathed his grip.

I loathed the enforced personal contact.