He looked at her for a moment in a puzzled sort of way. Jack's complexion was that of a gipsy; Darrell's as fresh and bright as a rose. She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. “Very well,” said her father. ‘She’s still bleeding. When Sheila was in a bad mood, she berated her new foster daughter for streaks on the windows, dust on the figurines, for crooked bed sheet corners, and floors that had not been waxed properly.
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