"I want to go out in the storm," she said.
"Then go, child," I answered her. "Your possessions are wide, and, as we of the Basin say, you are not made of sugar, to melt; neither," I added, "are you like Lot's wife."
She showed her fine teeth over that old tender and beloved reminiscence, but the wistful look, and sad, was still in her eyes.
"And—I would like to put on the old shawl again, just this once," she said.
"Oh," said I, "that is another thing. That is priceless, and I have it, as you know, locked among my treasures. Still, this once, yes." And I brought it to her.
Still smiling at me, as pleading for her fancy, she held it at her throat as of old.
I made haste to resume my reading with seeming preoccupation apart, for I thought she wished to go alone.
"Aren't you coming?" said she, wistfully again, and paled and turned to me.
The look in her eyes—she wanted me! Oh, how my heart leaped—a trick taught it at the Basin, which now it will never get over.
But, sly as Captain Leezur, I hid my delight in the folds of my great overcoat.