Now, I'll be getting along. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. 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. Your career at the bar had given you a command of language, also a self-control not vouchsafed to us ordinary mortals. ‘She ought to be. He noticed the two chairs close together. “Yes, I believe he is.
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