Alice did not falter at the threshold, but promptly entered her prison.
"I hope you can be comfortable," said Farnsworth in a low tone.

"It's the best I can give you." "Thank you," was the answer spoken quite as if he had handed her a glass of water or picked up her handkerchief.
He held the door a moment, while she stopped, with her back toward him, in the middle of the room; then she heard him close and lock it.

The air was almost too warm after her exposure to the biting wind and cold dashes of rain.

She cast off her outer wraps and stood by the fireplace.

At a glance she comprehended that the place was not the one she had formerly occupied as a prisoner, and that it belonged to a man.
A long rifle stood in a corner, a bullet-pouch and powder-horn hanging on a projecting hickory ramrod; a heavy fur top-coat lay across one of the chairs.
Alice felt her situation bitterly enough; but she was not of the stuff that turns to water at the touch of misfortune.