Her beautiful chestnut hair was softly parted
and arranged in a mass of graceful curls at the back of the head. She
wore a house-gown of white muslin sprigged with violets, and a long
Marie Antoinette fichu, pale green and diaphanous. Where it crossed
she fastened a bunch of violets. She looked like a vision of spring,
a grateful vision for a sick room.
When Holt tapped on her door on his way out the second time,
muttering characteristically: "Coast clear. All serene," she walked
down the hall with nothing of the primitive fierce courage she had
exhibited in Five Points. She was terrified at the ordeal before her,
afraid of appearing sentimental and silly; that he would find her
less beautiful than his memory of her, or gone off and no longer
desirable. What if he should die suddenly? Holt had told her of his
agitation. This visit should have been postponed until he had slept
and recuperated. She had sent him word to that effect but he had
replied that he had no intention of waiting.
She stood still for a few moments until she felt calmer, then turned
the knob of Masters' door and walked in.
He was sitting propped up in bed and she had an agreeable shock of
surprise. In spite of all efforts of will her imagination had
persisted in picturing him with a violent red face and red injected
eyes, a loose sardonic mouth and lines like scars.
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