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 For a second the Woodland Girl stood staring into his dreadful, chaotic face, then she squared her shoulders and turned to meet the wrathful, con- temptuous surprise in her uncle s and aunt s fea- tures.

"So it was you," sneered the uncle, "embroil- ing our decent household in a common, vulgar in trigue ?"

"So it was you," flamed her aunt, "you who have been posing all these days as an Innocent?"

Frantic with perplexity, muddled with fear, torn by conflicting chivalries, the Woodland Girl stared back and forth from Adele Reitzen's agonized plea to the grim, inscrutable gleam in Brian Baird's eyes. As though every living, moving verb had been ripped out of that night s story, and all the inflexible nouns were printing themselves slam-bang one on top of another Roses, Wine, Music, Silver, Dia- monds, Fir-Balsam telescoped each other in her senses.

"Your father sent you down here," persisted her aunt brutally, "on the private plea to me that he was planning to be married again but I can read ily see that perhaps no one would exactly want you."

The Woodland Girl's heart began to pound.

"We are waiting," prodded her uncle's icy voice.