What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. Mr. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged. I keep on thinking of little details and aspects of your voice, your eyes, the way you walk, the way your hair goes back from the side of your forehead. Nevertheless, she was no fool, and she knew that they could easily break loose and cause her to fall. At least, I frustrated her design in calling upon him this morning. Presently he caught her puzzled glance, and recollected himself, turning on the charm again. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. “I’ve been thinking—all the afternoon.
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