‘That’s wicked, that is. ’ She was silent for a space, and it was evident that this part of the story was still too painful to be recalled with ease. Away up on the hillside was the little country railway station. If you were ten years younger, you'd have me wondering. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. Impressionable, lonely, a deal beyond his analytical reach, the girl might let her sympathies go beyond those of the nurse. ‘You ain’t got nothing on me.
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