Her moods were many and always striking. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. So often as she had herself manipulated a dagger, she could not mistake the shape that pressured across her chest, or the sharp point that dug below her bosom. Where her husband saw only two youngsters in the mating mood, she felt that tragedy in some phase lurked in this room—if only in the loneliness of these two, without kith or kin apparently, thousands of miles from home. No hair to fall awry, no powder to displace, no ruffles to crush; men are lucky. The general did what he might to hush it up, and paid handsomely to manage it, I daresay. She had never let off a pistol in her life. Perhaps these few words were the first real conscious words he had uttered in days. But he was wide awake.
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