It was a hard, cold voice,
that yet sounded familiar, and she turned.
There was no forgetting those deep, burning eyes, though the face had
changed. The thin red lips still remained its one touch of colour; but
the unhealthy whiteness of the skin had given place to a delicate pallor;
and the features that had been indistinct had shaped themselves in fine,
firm lines. It was a beautiful, arresting face, marred only by the
sullen callousness of the dark, clouded eyes.
Joan was glad of the assistance. Hilda produced pins.
"I always come prepared to these scrimmages," she explained. "I've got
some Hazeline in my bag. They haven't kicked you, have they?"
"No," laughed Joan. "At least, I don't think so."
"They do sometimes," answered Hilda, "if you happen to be in the way,
near the feeding troughs. If they'd only put all the refreshments into
one room, one could avoid it. But they will scatter them about so that
one never knows for certain whether one is in the danger zone or not. I
hate a mob."
"Why do you come?" asked Joan.
"Oh, I!" answered the girl.
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