“I don’t know that it’s the dress,” said he, “but you do look taller than usual, it seems to me.”
She laughed, as if she found humor in his solemn repetition of such a trivial discovery.
“Well, I can’t help being tall,” she said. “How tall would you have a lady grow? How tall do you think one ought to be?”
“‘As high as my heart,’” said Joe, remembering Orlando’s words.
The color deepened in her cheeks; she caught her breath with a little “Oh!”
She wondered what sprout of blue-blooded and true-blooded nobility in Shelbyville there was capable of turning a reply like that without straining for it more than that pale cavalier with his worn clothing hanging loose upon his bony frame. When she ventured to lift her eyes to his face, she found him grasping a bar of the cell door with one hand, as if he would tear it from its frame. His gaze was fixed upon the high 222 window, he did not turn. She felt that he was struggling with himself that moment, but whether to drive to speech or to withhold it, she could not tell.
“I wish I could go out there and run about five miles this morning,” he sighed.
She gave him sigh for sigh, feeling that something was lost. He had not striven with himself merely to say that. But from there they went on to talk of his coming trial, and to expose the mutual hope that no further excuse would be advanced for its continuance. He seemed to be certain that the trial would see an end of his difficulty, and she trembled to contemplate any other outcome.
So they stood and talked, and her face was glowing and her eyes were bright.
“Your cheeks are as red as bitter-sweet,” said he.