You recognize it? Yep, it was Tom. Big Tom Dorgan, at the foot of Latimer's bed, his hands above his head, and Latimer's gun aimed right at his heart.
Think of the pluck of that cripple, will you?
His eyes turned on me for just a second, and then fixed themselves again on Tom. But his voice went straight at me, all right.
"You are something of a thankless devil, I must admit, Miss—Omar," he said.
I didn't say anything. You don't say things in answer to things like that. You feel 'em.
Ashamed? What do I care for a man with a voice like that! ... But you should have heard how Tom's growl sounded after it.
"Why the hell didn't you light out?"
"I couldn't, Tom. I just—couldn't," I sobbed.
"There seems invariably to be a misunderstanding of signals where Miss Omar is concerned. Also a disposition to use strong language in the lady's presence. Don't you, young man!"
"Don't you call me Miss Omar!" I blazed, stamping my foot.