His tone was rough, almost threatening. The flicker of an eyelash might betray his presence. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable. She was never violent when angry: she became as calm and baffling as the sea in doldrums. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say.
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