It was his turn to express astonishment. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. "I rather fancy, as you Britishers say, that you know the nature of my visit?" "I'm an American. ‘Is that a gesture of friendship?’ She stamped her foot. “I thought you wanted to have a talk to me,” she said. Cheveney walked away with a shrug of the shoulders. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. Day after day—five, to be exact—she had returned to Morgan's; and each time the man would understand what had drawn her, and with a kindly smile would sit down at the piano and play. ‘My name’s NOT More, Mr.
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