Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. She hastened past. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. Russell trouble, a good lot of trouble. Whenever you grow impatient with her, remember the folly of her father. Each was draped in transparent silk, dancing, beckoning to me, teasing me. I’m that shamed to confess it, miss, but it were then I thought of Martha.
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