(Via:Here.)
He didn't hang fire to help her alight—and she shilly-shallied—then leapt down skillfully despite her enervation.
A sequel to scene 1.
Unhesitatingly—it was not exorbitant to anticipate that Louis would be there to link up the stage—as he had vowed in his most neoteric letter! Since Santa Clarita she had envisioned him alternately—as a devil-may-care hero or an uncouth monster.
In her brain he was briskly supposing the latter identity again. A flash of concentrated Irish fury in a wink—trounced her trepidations. The svelte fingers contracted—then easened. A lady never shows extremes of emotion: Maxim Number Ten from Miss Emerson's Academy for Young Gentlewomen.
The driver flinged open the door. "Greenwood Junction, ma'am."
"Thank you, Mr. Murdock."
He didn't hang fire to help her alight—and she shilly-shallied—then leapt down skillfully despite her enervation. She was elegantly crafted—with an adamantine tiny chin—gingerly curving mouth and dark-fringed eyes that could darken from a profound sky blue to violet in a prompt's time.
And underneath her shy and ladylike exterior—there skulked an audacious woman of a fiery spirit and the Devil's own make-up—which she persistently fought to expertise.
So this is Greenwood Junction, she evinced. How very inappropriate! Don't mention where she looked; there was neither green nor wood to be observed—except for the bone-colored planks of the boardwalk and the storefronts—cleaved and blanched from the unabating sun. The rest of the buildings were formed from adobe and sprung like light-toned mushrooms from the earth itself—not a solacing glance for somebody more used to the neat brick and clapboard structures of the East.
A mysterious bird shrieked once, twice, then dipped at a piece of detritus. No one was about—yet Agathe had the distinct feeling she was being watched. The rear side of her neck thorned irksomely—conveying a cold razor of agitation sweeping down her spine. A lackluster rapping sound came to her ears—but the wind transposed—and she couldn't pinpoint its origin. Maintaining her head high, her back rigid—Agathe waited agonizingly.
In the deep shadows of the lean-to at the far end of the dirt street, two men evaluated her, one in frank admiration—the other with an intensity unlike his usual controlled manner. "There's a real lady, now, Gabriel," the blacksmith spoke to the man whose horse he was shoeing.