"
He gave it easily enough, but as she was reaching down the key she heard
him say:
"Fancy niggers and tinned provisions."
This time she really was angry. The blood was in her cheeks as she
turned on him.
"My men are not niggers. The sooner you understand that the better for
our acquaintance. As for the tinned goods, I'll pay for all they eat.
Please don't worry about that. Worry is not good for you in your
condition. And I won't stay any longer than I have to--just long enough
to get you on your feet, and not go away with the feeling of having
deserted a white man."
"You're American, aren't you?" he asked quietly.
The question disconcerted her for the moment.
"Yes," she vouchsafed, with a defiant look. "Why?"
"Nothing. I merely thought so."
"Anything further?"
He shook his head.
"Why?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing. I thought you might have something pleasant to say."
"My name is Sheldon, David Sheldon," he said, with direct relevance,
holding out a thin hand.
Her hand started out impulsively, then checked. "My name is Lackland,
Joan Lackland." The hand went out. "And let us be friends."
"It could not be otherwise--" he began lamely.
"And I can feed my men all the tinned goods I want?" she rushed on.
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