Their
wet clothes were cold upon them and the camp pitching was hurried.
Susan bending over her fire, blowing at it with expanded cheeks and,
between her puffs, scolding at her father, first, for having got wet,
then for having stayed wet, and now for being still wet, was to David
just as charming as any of the other and milder apotheoses of the Susan
he had come to know so well. It merely added a new tang, a fresh spice
of variety, to a personality a less ravished observer might have
thought unattractively masterful for a woman.
Her fire kindled, the camp in shape, she lay down by the little blaze
with her head under a lupine plant. Her wrath had simmered to
appeasement by the retirement of the doctor into his wagon, and David,
glimpsing at her, saw that her eyes, a thread of observation between
black-fringed lids, dwelt musingly on the sky. She looked as if she
might be dreaming a maiden's dream of love. He hazarded a tentative
remark. Her eyes moved, touched him indifferently, and passed back to
the sky, and an unformed murmur, interrogation, acquiescence, casual
response, anything he pleased to think it, escaped her lips.
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