"He made
that sound terribly sincere, didn't he?" she commented. "It takes a Mexican to
lift flattery up among the fine arts." Then she thought no more about it.
Annie-Many-Ponies was sitting apart, on a rock where her gay blanket made a
picturesque splotch of color against the gray barrenness of the hill behind
her. She, too, heard what Ramon said, and she, too, thought that he had made
the praise sound terribly sincere. He had not spoken to her at all after the
first careless nod of recognition when he rode up. And although her reason had
approved of his caution, her sore heart ached for a little kindness from him.
She turned her eyes toward him now with a certain wistfulness; but though
Ramon chanced to be looking toward her she got no answering light in his eyes,
no careful little signal that his heart was yearning for her. He seemed
remote, as indifferent to her as were any of the others dulled by
accustomedness to her constant presence among them. A premonitory chill, as
from some great sorrow yet before her in the future, shook the heart of Annie-
Many-Ponies.
"Me, I fine out how moch more yoh want me campa here for pictures," Ramon was
saying now to Luck who was standing by Pete Lowry, scribbling something on his
script.
Pages:
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88