"I know the character of the man,
from long acquaintance, and I know that what he says he'll do he'll do,
and no holding off at arm's length, either, for any considerable period
of time."
Such was the situation of Cad Sills. A dark, lush, ignorant, entrancing
woman, for whose sake decent men stood ready to drop their principles
like rags--yes, at a mere secret sign manifested in her eye, where the
warmth of her blood was sometimes seen as a crimson spark alighted on
black velvet. She went against the good government of souls.
Even Rackby had taken note of her once, deep as his head was in the
clouds by preference and custom. It was a day in late November. No snow
had fallen, and she floated past him like a cloud shadow as he plodded
in the yellow road which turned east at the Preaching Tree. She passed,
looked back, slashed a piece of dripping kelp through the air so close
that salt drops stung his pale eyes, laughed aloud, and at the top of
her laugh, broke into a wild, sweet song unfamiliar to him. It was a
voice unlike the flat voices of women thereabouts--strong, sweet,
sustained, throbbing with a personal sense of the passion which lurked
in the warm notes.
Her foot was bare, and more shapely in consequence than if she had had a
habit of wearing shoes.
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