And she suddenly thrust out her hand for him to take. He put down his basket and fork, very clumsily indeed, and took it, as one might handle a knife-blade. It was pale brown, and very small beside his own. Along one finger-nail was the faintest sign of a bruise. Her bracelet shone bright in the sun,—a silver chain, and a round silver bangle perforated with star-shaped holes.
"I'm sorry," he said, and then added with blunt honesty, "but it ain't as bad as it might be. A stone-bruise can be pretty bad sometimes. You see, if it gets"—
But there was that in the mocking lustre of her eyes which cut him short in his pedagogy. Still holding her hand, he felt a great weakness come over him, a weakness overwhelmingly strong. Her face, the triangular face of a kitten, with her eyes of liquid fire, was turned up toward him earnestly in the fierce noon sunlight, and was no longer flushed, but pale. He felt that he ought to tell her something—something that she understood already and expected. But there was a long silence.
"You must be awful lonesome," she said
