"I see you've still got that lovely
skin. And how tasty you dress! Now, do set!"
Susan seated herself.
"Pitch right in, child," urged Sallie. "How's yer aunt and her Ruth?"
"They're--they're well, thank you."
"Do eat!"
"No," said Susan. "I'll wait for Uncle."
"Never mind your manners. I know you're starved." Then seeing
that the girl would not eat, she said, "Well, I'll go fetch him."
But Susan stopped her. "Please please don't," she entreated.
Sallie stared to oppose; then, arrested by the intense,
appealing expression in those violet-gray eyes, so beautifully
shaded by dark lashes and brows, she kept silent, bustled
aimlessly about, boiling with suddenly aroused curiosity. It was
nearly half an hour by the big square wooden clock on the
chimney-piece when Susan heard the steps of her two uncles. Her
hunger fled; the deathly sickness surged up again. She trembled,
grew ghastly in the yellow lamplight. Her hands clutched each
other in her lap.
"Why, Susie!" cried her aunt. "Whatever is the matter of you!"
The girl lifted her eyes to her aunt's face the eyes of a
wounded, suffering, horribly suffering animal. She rose,
rushed out of the door into the yard, flung herself down on the
grass. But still she could not get the relief of tears. After a
while she sat up and listened. She heard faintly the voices of
her uncle and his relatives.
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