’ ‘Yolande, my maid?’ ‘You don’t need a maid,’ Martha said stoutly. "Was that thunder?" he faltered, as a terrible clap was heard overhead. His lips were tight drawn. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. Her head rose. He smiled complacently.
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