His face was downcast. They took her fingerprints sitting at the gray metal desk of Officer Nolte, the virile young buck who had brought her in. Cold drops stood upon Wood's brow, as he encountered this obstacle. There were dark rims under her eyes, soft now with unshed tears. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. “It is a delightful day for walking, but a great deal too cold to be standing on the pavement.
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