They were not warm or nervous, but
so coolly and calmly beautiful that they disturbed Carrigan. She
raised her hands, her slim fingers crumpling for a moment in the
soft, thick coils of her hair. That little movement, the
unconscious feminism of it, the way she folded her hands in her
lap afterward, disturbed Carrigan even more. What a glory on earth
it must be to possess a woman like that! The thought made him
uneasy. And she sat waiting, a vivid, softly-breathing question-
mark against the warm coloring of the upholstered chair.
"When you shot me," he began, "I saw you, first, standing over me.
I thought you had come to finish me. It was then that I saw
something in your face--horror, amazement, as though you had done
something you did not know you were doing. You see, I want to be
charitable. I want to understand. I want to excuse you if I can.
Won't you tell me why you shot me, and why that change came over
you when you saw me lying there?"
"No, M'sieu David, I shall not tell." She was not antagonistic or
defiant. Her voice was not raised, nor did it betray an unusual
emotion. It was simply decisive, and the unflinching steadiness of
her eyes and the way in which she sat with her hands folded gave
to it an unqualified definiteness.
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