But she was
still under the deadening influence of shock. This raw experience was the
worst the West had yet dealt her. It brought back former states of
revulsion and formed them in one whole irrefutable and damning judgment
that seemed to blot out the vaguely dawning and growing happy
susceptibilities. It was, perhaps, just as well to have her mind reverted
to realistic fact. The presence of Haze Ruff, the astounding truth of the
contact with his huge sheep-defiled hands, had been profanation and
degradation under which she sickened with fear and shame. Yet hovering back
of her shame and rising anger seemed to be a pale, monstrous, and
indefinable thought, insistent and accusing, with which she must sooner or
later reckon. It might have been the voice of the new side of her nature,
but at that moment of outraged womanhood, and of revolt against the West,
she would not listen. It might, too, have been the still small voice of
conscience. But decision of mind and energy coming to her then, she threw
off the burden of emotion and perplexity, and forced herself into composure
before the arrival of Glenn.
The dust had ceased to blow, although the wind had by no means died away.
Sunset marked the west in old rose and gold, a vast flare.
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