Joe dropped the stub of the match and set his foot on it.
Ollie stared at him, her face as white as her bridal dress, her eyes big, like a barn-yard animal’s eyes in a lantern’s light. She was gathering and wadding the ends of her veil in her hands; her lips were open, showing the points of her small, white teeth. 105
“Isom–he’ll kill me!” she whispered.
“Isom don’t know about it,” said Joe.
“You’ll tell him!”
“No.”
Relief flickered in her face. She leaned forward a little, eagerly, as if to speak, but said nothing. Joe shrank back from her, his hand pressing heavily upon the table.
“I never meant to tell him,” said he slowly.
She sprang toward him, her hands clasped appealingly.
“Then you’ll let me go, you’ll let me go?” she cried eagerly. “I can’t stay here,” she hurried on, “you know I can’t stay here, Joe, and suffer like he’s made me suffer the past year! You say Morgan won’t come––”