"Don't!" she quavered. And then,
in a panic, her two hands came up in a vain effort to hide
the tears. She sank down on the rough bench by the table,
and the proud head came down on her arms so that there was a
little clatter and tinkle among the supper things spread on
the table. Then quiet.
Clarence Heyl stared. He stared, helplessly, as does a man
who has never, in all his life, been called upon to comfort
a woman in tears. Then instinct came to his rescue. He
made her side of the table in two strides (your favorite
film star couldn't have done it better), put his two hands
on her shoulders and neatly shifted the bowed head from the
cold, hard surface of the table top to the warm, rough,
tobacco-scented comfort of his coat. It rested there quite
naturally. Just as naturally Fanny's arm crept up, and
about his neck. So they remained for a moment, until he
bent so that his lips touched her hair. Her head came
up at that, sharply, so that it bumped his chin. They both
laughed, looking into each other's eyes, but at what they
saw there they stopped laughing and were serious.
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