a curl about her finger in soothing caress. The child was stilled.
Collins scowled at them—at the mother, standing there, one hand soothing, her whole body tense before her children, a defense, a barrier; at the man, red-faced, perplexed, horror-stricken yet pitying; at the child up in its cot, at the child sleeping with its head among the dishes on the table. Then, warning them once more in terrible and grotesque pantomime with his revolver, he stepped backward through the door, which immediately slammed shut upon the group, petrified in bronze attitudes.
Out in the hallway, he wheeled and covered the outer door, which was opening. It shut again. A woman had come in. “Nell,” he whispered.
She was by his side, in the darkness, putting something in his hand. “Quick!” she said.
He opened the box and dropped the rifle cartridges loose into his pocket. She gave him another one.
“Quick!” she said again; “the place’s going to be shadowed.”
