She imagined she saw pity in Mrs.Lawrence's expression.
Instantly, she began to knit rapidly.

She wished to talk unconcernedly, but the words would not come.

Broussard's association with the pallid woman before her was a painful mystery to Anita.
Jealousy is a plant that springs from nothing, and grows like Jonah's gourd in the minds of women.
Anita was too innocent, too rashly confident in the honor of all the other women in the world to think any wrong of the woman before her.
But it was enough that Mrs.Lawrence knew Broussard well, and was in communication with him--a strange thing between an officer and the wife of a private soldier, even if the soldier be of a station unusual in the ranks.

Ever in Anita's heart smouldered the joy of the words Broussard had spoken to her under thousands of eyes on that memorable night of the music ride, and the sharp pain that came from Broussard's saying no more.
In a few minutes the jacket was done, and Anita rose.

It required all her generosity as well as justice to say to Mrs.Lawrence: "If I can do anything for you, please let me know." "I thank you," replied Mrs.Lawrence.