But for you they might have killed him.
Tell me how it happened." She knew, but she wanted to hear the story from his own lips.
His narrative was rather disjointed, and he slipped in von Mitter as many times as possible, thinking to do that individual a good turn.
Perhaps she noticed it, for at intervals she smiled.

During the telling he took out his handkerchief, wiped the dog's head with it, and wound it tightly about the injured leg.

The dog knew; he wagged his tail.
How handsome and brave, she thought, as she observed the face in profile.

Not a day had passed during the fortnight gone that she had not conjured up some feature of that intelligent countenance; sometimes it had been the eyes, sometimes the chin and mouth, sometimes the shapely head.

It was wrong; but this little sin was so sweet.