For some seconds of voluminous thinking they looked at the ring between them, and neither spoke. Particles of bullet were embedded in Rhea’s large arm as she swung across the stones in her donated legs. If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. "You hay'n't hurt your arm, I trust, my dear?" he added, anxiously. Always I have said I will take care of myself, and I have done so. What could she do? Reluctantly, at a second curt command, she began to step across the uncarpeted floor, her eyes never leaving the threatening pistol. “You are very good,” she said. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill. That, Sir, is what I call being a Good Samaritan. She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end.
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