"
"Why--er--" I begins, "I only meant--ah-- Don't let me crash in on your
readin', though."
Her thin lips flatten into a straight line--the best imitation of a smile
she can work up, I expect--and she turns down a leaf in her magazine.
Then she shifts sudden to another chair, where she has me under the
electrolier, facin' her, and I knows that I'm let in for something. I
could almost hear the clerk callin', "Hats off in the courtroom."
Odd, ain't it, how you can get sensations like that just from a look or
two? And with dimmers on them lamps of hers Myra wouldn't have scared
anybody. Course, her nose does have sort of a thin edge to it, and her
narrow mouth and pointed chin sort of hints at a barbed-wire disposition;
but nothing real dangerous.
Still, Myra ain't one you'd snuggle up to casual, or expect to do any
hand-holdin' with. She ain't costumed for the part, for one thing. No,
hardly. Her idea of an evenin' gown seems to be to kick off her
ridin'-boots and pin on a skirt. She still sticks to the white
neck-stock; and, the way her hair is parted in the middle and drawn back
tight over her ears, she's all fixed to weather a gale. Yes, Myra has
all the points of a plain, common-sense female party just taggin'
thirty-five good-by.
Pages:
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125