She sought for my hand, held it in an iron grip, and said not a word.

It was but a five minutes' run at the pace to which Marigold, time-worn master of crises of life and death, put the car.

Betty held herself rigid, staring straight in front of her, and striving in vain to stifle horrible little sounds that would break through her tightly closed lips.
When we pulled up at her door she said queerly: "Forgive me.

I'm a damned little coward." And she bolted from the car into the house..