The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it. He shuddered. “You silly wimmin,” he said over and over again throughout the hearing, plucking at his blotting-pad with busy hands. It was really very jolly to talk to a man in this way—who saw the woman in her and did not treat her as a child.
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