A wet, cold, reviving sensation evidently came from the handkerchief with which he was mopping her face.
"Carley, you can't be hurt--really!" he was ejaculating, in eager hope.
"It was some spill.

But you lit on the sand and slid.

You can't be hurt." The look of his eyes, the tone of his voice, the feel of his hands were such that Carley chose for a moment to pretend to be very badly hurt indeed.

It was worth taking a header to get so much from Glenn Kilbourne.

But she believed she had suffered no more than a severe bruising and scraping.
"Glenn--dear," she whispered, very low and very eloquently.