Sally was on me like a little whirlwind, white of face and dark of eye,
with a resoluteness I could not have deemed her capable of. She was as
strong and supple as a panther, too. But she need not have been either
resolute or strong, for the clasp of her arms, the feel of her warm
breast as she pressed me back were enough to make me weak as water. My
knees buckled as I touched the chair, and I was glad to sit down. My
face was wet with perspiration and a kind of cold ripple shot over me. I
imagined I was losing my nerve then. Proof beyond doubt that Sally loved
me was so sweet, so overwhelming a thing, that I could not resist, even
to save her disgrace.
"Russ, the fact of your being here is the very thing to save you--if
they come," Sally whispered softly. "What do I care what they think?"
She put her arms round my neck. I gave up then and held her as if she
indeed were my only hope. A noise, a stealthy sound, a step, froze that
embrace into stone.
"Up yet, Sally?" came Sampson's clear voice, too strained, too eager to
be natural.
"No. I'm in bed, reading. Good night, Uncle," instantly replied Sally,
so calmly and naturally that I marveled at the difference between man
and woman.
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