Every now and then her general presence became radiantly dazzling in his eyes; she would appear in the street coming toward him, a surprise, so fine and smiling and welcoming was she, so expanded and illuminated and living, in contrast with his mere expectation. But he had shown no desire for information, no curiosity. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. Wood went on fuming, and the trio went on laughing for some minutes, nobody knew why or wherefore, until the party was increased by Mr. “What ought she to do?” “Suppose you—” “Yes, suppose I—” He felt that his advice was being asked. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say.
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