The whistling rose a little in volume now. It was a happy sound, without a
recognizable tune, but a gay, wild improvisation as if a violinist, drunk,
was remembering snatches of masterpieces, throwing out lovely fragments
here and there and filling the intervals out of his own excited fancy. Joan
ran to the window, forgetful of the puppy, and kneeled there in the chair,
looking out. The whistling stopped as Kate drew down the curtain to cut out
Joan's view. It was far too dark for the child to see out, but she often
would sit like this, looking into the dark.
The whistling began again as Joan turned silently on her mother,
uncomplaining, but with a singular glint in her eyes, a sort of flickering,
inward light that came out by glances and starts. Now the sound of the
rider blew closer and closer. Kate gestured the men to their positions, one
for each of the two inner doors while she herself took the outer one. There
was not a trace of color in her face, but otherwise she was as calm as a
stone, and from her an atmosphere pervaded the room, so that men also stood
quietly at their posts, without a word, without a sign to each other.
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