They didn't notice my aunt or
me.
"_You going?_" asked Deolda.
They looked into each other's eyes, and he answered so I could barely
hear:
"Sure."
"_You know what he's thinking about?_" said Deolda.
Again Johnny waited before he answered in a voice hardly above a
whisper:
"I can guess."
Deolda went up slowly to him and put one of her long hands on each of
his shoulders. She looked deep into his eyes. She didn't speak; she just
looked. And he looked back, as though trying to find out what she had in
her heart, and as he looked a little flicker of horror went over his
face. Then he smiled a slow smile, as though he had understood something
and consented to it--and it was a queer smile to see on the face of a
young fellow. It was as if the youth of Johnny Deutra had passed away
forever. Then Deolda said to him:
"Good for you, Johnny Deutra!" and put out her hand, and he laid his in
hers and they shook on it, though no word had passed between them. And
all this time my aunt and I sat motionless on the haircloth sofa next to
the wall. And I tell you as I watched them my blood ran cold, though I
didn't understand what it was about. But later I understood well enough.
There never was so long an evening. The squall blew over and a heavy
blow set in.
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