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. Give me your hand. But this chap is good wine yet. ‘No, let me guess,’ he interrupted. Was that it? Had she clothed this unhappy young man with glamour? Or was it because he was so alone? She could not get through the husks to the kernel of what really actuated her. His fingers closed upon her hand. Jack's former attempt to pass up the chimney, it may be remembered, was obstructed by an iron bar. She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. “You are very stupid, Anna,” she said. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane.
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