‘That—that—why do you speak of him?’ ‘Because I feel you ought to know,’ Gerald said calmly, but rising and watching her closely, ‘that all your trouble may be in vain. All the events of the previous day rushed to his recollection; and though he had been unintentionally the cause of his mother's death, he reproached himself as severely as if he had been her actual murderer. The soldiers! They must not find her here. He made a movement toward her, and then recalled the circumstances of their last conversation in that study. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. She was a lone white woman, therefore marked. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities.
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