Her cheek went red on more than one occasion
when her father's coarse humor offended her delicate sensibilities;
she paled under the veiled, insinuating compliments of the other. Once
David's hand accidentally touched hers, below the edge of the table.
His strong fingers at once closed over hers and for many minutes he
held them tight, unknown to any but themselves. The dark lashes
drooped lower on her cheeks; he could almost detect the flutter in her
throat.
The ghastly meal drew to a close. The Colonel, leaning forward, was
gazing through half-closed lids at the profile of the woman beside
him. His long, white fingers fumbled with an unused spoon beside her
plate. Once she had hitched her chair a little farther away from his,
--an abrupt proceeding that had not failed to attract David's
attention.
"Well, we will have many of these jolly little spreads," he was saying
in his oiliest tones. "Birds of a feather, you know. Ha, ha! That's
rather a clever way of putting it, eh, Jack?"
Braddock laughed boisterously. He had lighted a cigar regardless of
the waiter's polite announcement that smoking was not allowed.
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