Gordon Young

“ A kind of strong inquiry was in her eyes, a doubt as to whether I had had motives of my own for saying what I had to Davenant and Williams; and if so what were they? She seemed a little uneasy rather than grateful, as if used to having to pay in pounds of flesh for every service done her.
Somehow I was less touched with sympathy than by something else, something not fear or distrust but having to do with her inordinate composure, which I knew very well was much like the composure of a serpent lying in motionless coils. Woman learns patience the last of all things ”

“ Much that Williams had done, and a great deal that he had not done, had found its way into print; and more than once the purported story of his basic tragedy—the woman who sought to have him hanged, who did have him hanged—had been told. The frequent efforts to betray him on all sides were, more or less accurately, summed up from time to time in the press; and traitors that even try to serve the law are likely to find journalists unsympathetic. Miss Davenant had found color in plenty to heighten her own picture of him. ”

“ Men are gallant at times when no woman is around because they remember her.
So, suddenly exalted by the opening of a full-blown idea in my own head, I extended my hand, took the chamois sack and pulled tight the thong. For that second she had the intent look of one who has thrown a rock at a mark, and stands in concentration awaiting the result. ”

“ Davenant had intended to kill Raikes. Raikes had heard why he and she were going to Dakaru. But the devil always keeps his pot stirring: Raikes was a sailor, and Williams treated Davenant no better than, no differently from, the men he drove. Besides, there was a reward for Williams's head: Davenant would go far from his way for money. He was now some twelve thousand miles from his home—after money. So in the stirring of the devil's spoon, Raikes and Davenant got their heads close. ”

“ That was why she had been so interested at what I had said the first night about Williams and his thirsty knife. Another of my lies, come home with a sharp beak.
It was strange, it was impressive, she said, how many little things touched her and Williams alike; and some big things too. She too was an “outlaw”—her word. There was such a thing as fate in the world. Her uncle—the father-relation vanished—by sheer accident, fate, had engaged Hurricane Williams.
She hated her uncle—with an almost casual frankness she said that. She hated all men, particularly her uncle ”

“ I told her I owed a lot of things that scarcely made life worth while to him, too. Having to work, for instance.
Her manner, not her voice, asked what was the matter with me. Women can't understand a drunken man, unless they know he is drunk; and as alcohol for a time goes to my tongue instead of my legs I was the more incomprehensible.
But I gradually realized that what she meant by the repeated question as to what would become of us, was what would be done about Tom Gibson's murder? ”

“ Davenant held a knife in his hand. He was examining it, and Williams held the lantern almost against the knife.
“As I said,” Davenant remarked, slowly turning the knife back and forth, “this looks—this is hers. Not that she wouldn't use it—her grandmother came from Sicily.
“This is very queer—very queer. Dula never spoke to the man in her life. I am sure of that. You don't think—” Davenant broke off. ”