There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. Her thought spoke aloud. Other girls gathered around like sheep. But she had loved the man. He fell backwards on his butt, the wind knocked out of him. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. For it was not a good thing to like one man too much when one was going to marry another.
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