She did not see the metal pole swing toward the back of her skull, nor did she feel her own blood spoiling her light hair after the dull crack of metal broke her flesh. Nor was this impression removed as he stole a glance at Mrs. Earles threw down his pen with a little exclamation. Could she hold him and manage the reins? If only Gerald had not gone. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. "You are an angel," she cried, with a look beaming with delight. He pulled away. Her impressions of this cardinal ceremony were rich and confused, complicated by a quite transitory passion that awakened no reciprocal fire for a fat curly headed cousin in black velveteen and a lace collar, who assisted as a page. It seemed to him that speech would be an anticlimax.
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