"This air is too sharp.

You have everything, Rymer--cap, coat, gauntlets?
Bring them along." "But I'm feeling better now," Louise protested.
"You're not yet fit to start home.

Over there it's warm and quiet." He rose to help her remove the great apron.
In the shack at the head of the street where he led her, he made her comfortable in an old arm-chair from his ranch house with a Navajo rug over her lap.

As he stirred up the fire, she gazed about at the room.
In one corner was a desk knocked together of boards, littered with papers; near it on the floor were boxes stuffed with rolls of blue-prints; the wall spaces between windows were filled with statements and reports; bulging card-board files rested on a shelf; from nails hung an old coat and a camera; in another corner leaned a tripod, rod, and a six-foot brass-edged measure specked with clay; and piled in a heap beyond the stove were a saddle, a pair of boots, chunks of pinon pine, and a discarded flannel shirt on which lay a gray cat nursing a kitten.

Through the inner door, standing open, she had a glimpse of two cots with tumbled blankets.