Then
coolly it traveled over the girl and came back to her burning
face.
"So that's it, is it?"
But the scorn in her voice was too much for Frances. She had been
judged and condemned in that cool stare, and all the woman in her
protested at its injustice.
"No, no, no!" she cried, running forward and catching at the
other's hand. "I'm not that. You don't understand."
Coldly Carmencita disengaged her hand and wiped it with her
kerchief. "I understand enough. Please do not touch me."
"May I not tell you my story?"
"I'll not trouble you. It does not interest me."
"But you will listen?" implored the other.
"I must ask to be excused."
"Then you are a heartless, cruel woman," flamed Frances. "I'm
good--as good as you are." The color patched her cheek and ebbed
again. "I wouldn't treat a dog as you do me. Oh, cruel, cruel!"
The surprising extravagance of her protest, the despair that rang
in the fresh young voice, caught the interest of the Mexican
girl. Surely such a heart-broken cry did not consist with guilt.
But the facts--when a young and pretty girl masquerades through
the country in the garb of a boy with a handsome young man, not
much room for doubt is left.
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