For she knew the face of the man who sat there counting; she knew how
the firelight flared in the dark red of his hair and made it seem like
another fire beneath which the blue of the eyes was strangely cold.
Her hand had gathered to a hard-balled fist.
"Eight--nine--"
She sprang up, screaming: "No, no, Pierre!" And threw out her arms to
him.
"Ten."
She whispered: "It was the girl with yellow hair--Mary Brown."
CHAPTER 33
It was as if she had said: "Good morning!" in the calmest of voices.
There was no answer in him, neither word nor expression, and out of
ten sharp-eyed men, nine would have passed him by without noting the
difference; but the girl knew him as the monk knows his prayers or the
Arab his horse, and a solemn, deep despair came over her. She felt
like the drowning, when the water closes over their heads for the
last time.
He puffed twice again at the cigarette and then flicked the butt into
the fire. When he spoke it was only to say: "Did she stay long?"
But his eyes avoided her.
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