She talked. Her words were dim, she could not see her words. She went on talking ... strong hands gripped her arms near her shoulders, turned her. A long heavy face—red and kind—thrust bewilderment upon her eyes that could not see her words.
“Mrs. Luve!”
—Your face is different: heavier, solider ... could it hurt so?
“Mrs. Luve!”
—Your hair is not silky. Silk cuts. Silk cuts.
“Mrs. Luve! what is the matter?”
He placed her in a chair. The window flew open. Steel cool night flooded in. The room righted.
“Excuse me, Mr. Johns.... I—I reckon I—I was faint a bit. Let’s go on.”
“There’s no hurry.”
—He’s looking at me. And I can’t see my words. I am talking. I must talk. Do my words stand between me and him? O they must.... Silk only cuts.... She stopped.