He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland. Two persons possessing a more comfortable stock of assurance could not be readily found. He laughed to hide his uneasiness. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. He drove it into her missionary style, and though he was worried about hurting her, he could not stop himself from thrusting into her deeply. He was a shy boy outwardly but she knew him better in his thoughts, in which perhaps she had already taken upon the role of lover. “The Holy Ghost! The Pope! My mother!” She squealed.
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