“Nice man. Something had happened to him too. He caught a rockfish and Nicholas boiled it in milk for our breakfast.” At the mention of Iscah Nicholas a slight shiver passed over her. This was what Woolfolk hoped for—a return of her normal revulsion from her surroundings, from the past.
“Nicholas,” he said sharply, contradicted by a faint dragging from the stair, “is dead.”
“If you could only assure me of that,” she replied wistfully. “If I could be certain that he wasn’t in the next shadow I’d go gladly. Any other way it would be useless.” She laid her hand over her heart. “I must get him out of here—My father did. His lips trembled a little, but he said quite clearly: ‘Don’t do that. Don’t touch my daughter.’”
“Your father was a singularly brave man,” he assured her, rebelling against the leaden monotony of speech that had fallen upon them. “Your mother too was brave,” he temporized. He could, he decided, wait no longer. She must, if necessary, be carried away forcibly. It was a desperate chance—the least pressure might result in a permanent, jangling discord. Her waist, torn, he saw, upon her pallid shoulder, was an insufficient covering against the wind and night. Looking about he discovered the muffler, laid out for her father, crumpled on the floor; and, with an arm about her, folded it over her throat and breast.
King Vidor’s “Wild Oranges.” A Goldwyn Picture.
A SCENE FROM THE PHOTOPLAY.
“Now we’re away,” he declared in a forced lightness. She resisted him for a moment, and then collapsed into his support.
John Woolfolk half led, half carried her into the hall. His gaze searched the obscurity of the stair; it was empty; but from above came the sound of a heavy, dragging step.