He
can't do anything. You know that."
"He that ought to be out in the desert there looking for water's lying
asleep under a blanket. That's your man."
He did not move or divert his gaze. There was something singularly
sinister in the fixed and gleaming look and the rigidity of his
watching face. She plucked at a weed, saw her hand's trembling and to
hide it struck her palms together shaking off the dust. The sound
filled the silent place. To her ears it was hardly louder than the
terrified beating of her heart.
"That's the man you've chosen," he went on. "A feller that gives out
when the road's hard, who hasn't enough backbone to stand a few days'
heat and thirst. A poor, useless rag."
He spoke in a low voice, very slowly, each word dropping distinct and
separate. His lowering expression, his steady gaze, his deliberate
speech, spoke of mental forces in abeyance. It was another man, not
the Courant she knew.
She tried to quell her tremors by simulating indignation. If her
breathing shook her breast into an agitation he could see, the look she
kept on him was bold and defiant.
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