a child than a woman, "who just like to play and have some fun. Purposeless, soulless creatures," she giggled, sprite-like, "but harmless," she added.
Vincent wasn't sure that she was so harmless. He hadn't supposed a girl existed who could make him ignore for whole hours at a time indelible spots and blotches splurged all over his memory. He hadn't supposed such an ephemeral thing as a smile, a look, a silvery laugh could wipe out awfulness and horror. But they could—they could! They were more effective in making Vincent forget, for a little while, certain details he was trying very hard to forget, than had been all his persistent efforts in removing from his sight everything that recalled or suggested them. He must take care. For two nights, now, he had gone to bed, and had actually fallen to sleep, without once feeling his bayonet slip straight and smoothly, as if it had been rubbed in grease, into the thing that wasn't a dummy.
He was aware that Miss Oliver's smiles and glances were but a part of the rôle she had assumed. He didn't accept them at their face value. But he couldn't attribute her play-acting (as play-acting of course it was) to any other motive except a generous impulse on her part to help and relieve him. That this stranger cared to exert
