“Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. He had not noticed the girl particularly when she offered the sandwiches; but in this moment he found her beautiful. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. She would have to leave very soon. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. “She has nothing to be afraid of,” he continued. He told her something about music, the great world outside. Kneebone, his impertinence was copied to the letter by Solomon.
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