arrested by a look such as she had never seen before: a panting
human soul sobbingly fluttering down into something from which it
had spent all its force in trying to rise. When she recalled herself
and passed on, a mist which she could neither account for nor banish
was dimming the clear hazel of her eyes.

The next day was a hard one at the dictionary place. She told
herself it was because the novelty of it was wearing away, because
her fingers ached, because it tired her back to sit in that horrid
chair. She did not admit of any connection between her flagging
interest and the fact that the place at the next table was vacant.

The following day he was still absent. She assumed that it was
nervousness occasioned by her queer surroundings made her look
around whenever she heard a step behind her. Where was he? Where had
that look carried him? If he were in trouble, was there no one to
help him?

The third day she did an unpremeditated thing. The man in the skull
cap had been showing her something about the copy. As he was
leaving, she asked: "Is the man who sits at the next table coming
back?"

"Oh yes," he replied grimly, "he'll be back."

"Because," she went on, "if he wasn't, I thought I would take his
shears. These hurt my fingers."

He made the exchange for her--and after that things went better.