didn't know about yesterday, even if she didn't know what he had done
now. Nobody could know that. She looked straight at Trixie, with broad,
open eyes that defied her to know.

"What makes you think so?"

"Your face."

"Damn my face. It's got nothing to do with you, Trixie."

"Yes it has. If it gives the show away I can't help seeing, can I?"

"You can help talking."

"Yes, I can help talking."

The arrogance had gone out of her face. It could change in a minute from
the face of a bird of prey to the face of a watching angel. It looked at
her as it looked at wounded men: tender and protective. But Trixie
couldn't see that you didn't want any tenderness and protection just
then, or any recognition of your wound.

"You rum little blighter," she said. "Come along. Nobody's going to
talk."

There was a stir as Charlotte went in; people shifting their places to
make room for her; McClane calling out to her to come and sit by him;
Alice Bartrum making sweet eyes; the men getting up and cutting bread and
butter and reaching for her cup to give it her. She could see they were
all determined to be nice, to show her what they thought of her; they had