THE BRASS BOWL
the film of thought that clouded her eyes, one fears Mr. Anisty might have lost appetite for an excellent luncheon.
For she was studying his hands, her memory harking back to the moment when she had stood beside the safe, holding the bull's-eye. …
In the blackness of that hour a disk of light shone out luridly against the tapestry of memory. Within its radius appeared two hands, long, supple, strong, immaculately white, graceful and dexterous, as delicate of contour as a woman's, yet lacking nothing of masculine vigor and modeling; hands that wavered against the blackness, fumbling with the shining nickeled disk of a combination-lock. … The impression had been and remained one extraordinarily vivid. Could her eyes have deceived her so? …
"Thoughtful?"
She nodded alertly, instantaneously mistress of self; and let her gaze, serious yet half smiling, linger upon his the exact fractional shade of an instant longer than had been, perhaps, discreet. Then lashes
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