That's all."
While the Squire walked away to the mills, McGregor was uneasily moving
his ponderous bulk to and fro in the room.
"It's his damn tender, soft-hearted ways that will win in the end. My old
Indian guide used to say, 'Much stick, good squaw.' Ann Penhallow has
never in her whole life had any stick. Damn these sugar plum husbands!
I'd like to know what Miss Leila Grey thinks of this performance. Now,
there's a woman!"
When after a night of deep sleep Ann woke to find Leila standing by her
bed, she rose on an elbow saying, "What time is it? Why are you here?"
"It is eight, aunt. You were ill last night; I stayed on your lounge."
Now her aunt sat up. "I was ill, you say--something happened." The thing
pieced itself together--ragged bits of memories storm-scattered by
emotion were reassembled, vague at first, then quickly more clear. She
broke into unnaturally rapid speech, reddening darkly, with ominous
dilatation of the pupils of her large blue eyes. "And so James Penhallow
is to be made rich by making cannon to kill my people--oh, I remember!"
It seemed absurdly childlike to Leila, who heard her with amazement. "And
with my money--it is easy to stay at home and murder--and be paid for it.
Let him go and--fight. That's bad enough--I--"
"God of Heaven, Aunt Ann!" the girl broke in, "don't dare to say that to
Uncle Jim.
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