She had gone into Morgan's one afternoon for a bag of salt. She could now see to read; so she stirred the manuscript about until she came upon the first page. But when all was over, a sorrowful calm succeeded, and, if not free from grief, she was tranquil. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. The shape of the head, the height and breadth of the brow, the angle of the nose, the cut of the chin and jaws, all were fine, of a type she had never before looked upon closely. Gradually McClintock shifted the burden to Spurlock's shoulders and retired among his books and music rolls.
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