She pretended a sudden interest in the prospect while the unbearable
picture rose before her mind--she and David alone, while her father and
Daddy John were somewhere else in tents, somewhere away from her, out
of reach of her hands and her kisses, not there to laugh with her and
tease her and tell her she was a tyrant, only David loving her in an
unintelligible, discomforting way and wanting to read poetry and admire
sunsets. The misery of it gripped down into her soul. It was as the
thought of being marooned on a lone sand bar to a free buccaneer. They
never could leave her so; they never could have the heart to do it.
And anger against David, the cause of it, swelled in her. It was he
who had done it all, trying to steal her away from the dear, familiar
ways and the people with whom she had been so happy.
Lucy looked at her with curious eyes, in which there was admiration and
a touch of envy.
"You must be awfully happy?" she said.
"Awfully," answered Susan, swallowing and looking at the rain.
When she went back to her own wagon she found a consultation in
progress. Daddy John, streaming from every fold, had just returned
from the head of the caravan, where he had been riding with the pilot.
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