“Look!” Mary whispered, suddenly gripping Judy’s arm. “See that tall woman in the black dress?”
“Yes, a Moslem.”
The woman was moving across an open space where the afterglow of the sun brought her out in bold relief.
“Does she—would you say there was anything unusual about her?” These words were said by Mary in so tense a whisper that Judy turned to look at her.
“Why, yes,” she replied slowly, “she is strange. I should say that she doesn’t belong here at all.”
“How could you know that?” Mary asked in a startled voice.
“I teach art and I paint quite a bit. You know an artist, a really good one, makes you conscious of a beautiful figure, even though it is loaded down with robes. It’s the way you sit and stand and move. That woman does not belong here. I’ve never seen anyone like her. There is a spring in her step. Her body is like a tight wire. I’d hate to meet her in the dark. I—”
Just then, as if conscious of the fact that she was being talked about, the woman turned and looked back.
As if startled, she quickened her pace.
To say that Mary was startled and alarmed would be to put it very mildly. She was not dreaming that, here in India, she had come across the Woman in Black, and yet this woman did seem to have something in common with her. It was strange.