She was
struggling there with her hands fumbling unavailingly at the back
of her bowed head, when she was pounced upon by someone or
something through the sage. She screamed.
"The--deuce!" Good Indian brought out the milder expletive with
the flat intonation which the unexpected presence of a lady
frequently gives to a man's speech. "Lucky I didn't take a shot
at you through the bushes. I did, almost, when I saw somebody
moving here. Is this your favorite place for a morning ramble?"
He had one hand still upon her arm, and he was laughing openly at
her plight. But he sobered when he stooped a little so that he
could see her face, for there were tears in her eyes, and Miss
Georgie was not the sort of young woman whom one expects to shed
tears for slight cause.
"If you did it--and you must have--I don't see how you can laugh
about it, even if he is a crawling reptile of a man that ought to
be hung!" The tears were in her voice as well as her eyes, and
there were reproach and disappointment also.
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