He saw, too, a small nun-like figure behind the counter, a figure all
in white, with a white veil banded about her forehead and flowing down
behind.
All of her bright hair was hidden, her eyes were on the compresses that
she was counting. It seemed to him that there was a sharpened look on
the little face.
He had not expected this. He had felt that he would find her glowing
as she had been on that first night when he had followed his father
through the rain--his dream had been of crinkled copper hair, of silver
and rose, of youth and laughter and lightness--.
Her letters had been like that--gay, sparkling--there had been times
when they had seemed almost too exuberant, times when he had wondered
if she had really waked to the seriousness of the great struggle, and
the part he was to play in it.
Yet now he saw signs of suffering. He opened the door. "Jean," he
cried.
With the blood all drained from her face, she stared at him as if she
saw a specter--"Derry," she whispered.
With his strong arms, he lifted her over the counter. "Jean-Joan,
Jean-Joan--"
When at last she released herself, it was to laugh through her tears.
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