Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. All the fury had left her, swamped by an inexplicable flood of warmth. The tail-ender of this little caravan, he had been rather out of it. And then, as she stood there, with the fragments of the torn canvas at her feet, some even caught upon her skirt, the door was thrown open, and a girl entered humming a light tune. He perceived, however, that both the novels he read and the world he lived in discountenanced these assumptions. He found himself growing hoarse yelling over the music, but it also situated him to lean towards her to put his hand on her ear to aid her hearing.
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