She recalled him. Her hair was the one part of her that did not exude the air of wealth. Then he slapped his hand on his desk and looked up with the air of a man struck by a brilliant idea. . He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. She held out her arm straight before her, and turned her hand this way and that. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance. But, let's see the prisoner.
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