A perplexed, ingratiating
and rather silly smile overspread them.
The two men regarded each other for a bit, and then the stranger drew
nearer.
"I do believe that was Na'mi," he said, nodding his head after the
woman's figure, that had not yet passed out of sight.
William Geake opened his eyes wide and answered curtly, "Yes: that's
my wife--Naomi Geake. What then?"
The man scratched his head, contemplating William as he might some
illegible sign-post set up at an unusually bothersome cross-road.
"She keeps very han'some, I will say." His smile grew still more
ingratiating.
"Was you wishin' to speak wi' her?"
"Well, there! I was an' yet I wasn't. 'Tis terrible puzzlin'. You
don't know me, I dessay."
"No, I don't."
"I be called Abe Bricknell--A-bra-ham Bricknell. I used to be
Na'mi's husband, one time. There now"--with an accent of genuine
contrition--"I felt sure 'twould put you out."
The tongue grew dry in William Geake's mouth, and the sunlight died
off the road before him. He stared at a blister in the green paint of
the garden-gate and began to peel it away slowly with his thumb-nail:
then, pulling out his handkerchief, picked away at the paint that had
lodged under the nail, very carefully, while he fought for speech.
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