Likely he's
just tickled--like the rest of them."
Mary led Sanderson into the sitting-room to a big easy-chair, shoved
him into it, and stood behind him, running her fingers through his
hair. Meanwhile she talked rapidly, telling him of the elder
Bransford's last moments, of incidents that had occurred during his
absence from the ranch; of other incidents that had to do with her life
at a school on the coast; of many things of which he was in complete
ignorance.
Desperate over his inability to interrupt her flow of talk, conscious
of the falseness of his position, squirming under her caresses, and
cursing himself heartily for yielding to the absurd impulse that had
placed him in so ridiculous a predicament, Sanderson opened his month a
dozen times to make his confession, but each time closed it again,
unsuccessful.
At last, nerved to the ordeal by the knowledge that each succeeding
moment was making his position more difficult, and his ultimate pardon
less certain, he wrenched himself free and stood up, his face crimson.
Pages:
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62