Etta was rather pale.

There was an anxious look in her eyes--behind the smile, as it were.

She was afraid of this man.

She looked at the flame of the samovar, busying herself among the tea-things with pretty curving fingers and rustling sleeves.

But the tea was never made.
"I begin to think," said Steinmetz, coming to the point in his bluff way, "that you are a sort of beautiful Jonah, a graceful stormy petrel, a fair Wandering Jewess.