"Wallace,"—she gripped both of his wrists, as if she were determined to hold him until she had the answers she sought—"you knew her—that girl?"
He averted his eyes. "Why, yes."
She spoke very low. "Was she—sweet?"
"Yes; sweet,"—with a note of impatience.
"Light—or dark?"
"Rather dark." Again he showed irritation.
"Was she—was she pretty?"
"She was beautiful."
Her hands fell. She turned away. "And she dropped right out of his life," she said, as if to herself. Then coming about suddenly, "Why, Wallace? You don't know?"
"I—do—not—know." He dragged at his hair with a nervous hand.