It seemed as if each time her imagination reached out investingly, an invisible lash beat it back. “Many nights I have thought of you, Anna. "I suspect our friend has thought better of it, and won't come," he remarked. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. 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. She was chic, distinguished, unusual.
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