A nurse was at the other end of the room. Her figure, though slight, had all the fulness of health; and her complexion—still pale, but without its former sickly cast,—contrasted agreeably, by its extreme fairness, with the dark brows and darker lashes that shaded eyes which, if they had lost some of their original brilliancy, had gained infinitely more in the soft and chastened lustre that replaced it. She watched as his headlights flooded the driveway and many minutes after his car was gone. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. “I do,” he answered. ‘Think it’s worth getting some sort of light and following her down there?’ asked Roding.
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