The dishes were dirty, and, as he bent over and
washed them, she turned her back and deftly changed her stockings. Her
childhood had taught her the value of well-cared feet for the trail.
She put her wet shoes on a pile of wood at the back of the stove,
substituting for them a pair of soft and dainty house-moccasins of
Indian make. The fire had now grown strong, and she was content to let
her under-garments dry on her body.
During all this time neither had spoken a word. Not only had the man
remained silent, but he went about his work in so preoccupied a way
that it seemed to Frona that he turned a deaf ear to the words of
explanation she would have liked to utter. His whole bearing conveyed
the impression that it was the most ordinary thing under the sun for a
young woman to come in out of the storm and night and partake of his
hospitality. In one way, she liked this; but in so far as she did not
comprehend it, she was troubled. She had a perception of a something
being taken for granted which she did not understand. Once or twice
she moistened her lips to speak, but he appeared so oblivious of her
presence that she withheld.
After opening a can of corned beef with the axe, he fried half a dozen
thick slices of bacon, set the frying-pan back, and boiled the coffee.
From the grub-box he resurrected the half of a cold heavy flapjack.
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