She
pointed to the rocking-chair, as she might have pointed out a mat
to a dog.
August crawled into it and smiled. He was going to make her
writhe presently, this woman who looked down upon him as some
venomous creeping thing she disdained to crush with her foot.
"Did you see anything of Chester on the road?" asked Thyra,
giving August the very opening he desired. "He went to the
harbor after tea to see Joe Raymond about the loan of his boat,
but it's the time he should be back. I can't think what keeps
the boy."
"Just what keeps most men--leaving out creatures like me--at some
time or other in their lives. A girl--a pretty girl, Thyra. It
pleases me to look at her. Even a hunchback can use his eyes,
eh? Oh, she's a rare one!"
"What is the man talking about?" said Thyra wonderingly.
"Damaris Garland, to be sure. Chester's down at Tom Blair's now,
talking to her--and looking more than his tongue says, too, of
that you may be sure. Well, well, we were all young once,
Thyra--all young once, even crooked little August Vorst. Eh,
now?"
"What do you mean?" said Thyra.
She had sat down in a chair before him, with her hands folded in
her lap. Her face, always pale, had not changed; but her lips
were curiously white. August Vorst saw this and it pleased him.
Also, her eyes were worth looking at, if you liked to hurt
people--and that was the only pleasure August took in life.
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