Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. She knew, or guessed his mission too, for more than once their eyes met, and she laughed mockingly at him. "It's a miserable weakness to be afraid of bloodshed. Wood, whose admiration for masculine beauty was by no means abated, glanced at the well-proportioned figure of the young man, and made him a very civil salutation. Wood fared still worse. “Prom committee does this, silly. " "And you want me to find a minister?" she asked, with ready comprehension.
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