As she stood leaning against the rail, buried deep in
thought, Billy Byrne passed close behind her. At sight of her a
sneer curled his lip. How he hated her! Not that she ever had
done aught to harm him, but rather because she represented
to him in concrete form all that he had learned to hate and
loathe since early childhood.
Her soft, white skin; her shapely hands and well-cared-for
nails; her trim figure and perfectly fitting suit all taunted him
with their superiority over him and his kind. He knew that she
looked down upon him as an inferior being. She was of the
class that addressed those in his walk of life as "my man."
Lord, how he hated that appellation!
The intentness of his gaze upon her back had the effect so
often noted by the observant, and suddenly aroused from the
lethargy of her misery the girl swung around to meet the
man's eyes squarely upon her. Instantly she recognized him as
the brute who had killed Billy Mallory. If there had been hate
in the mucker's eyes as he looked at the girl, it was as nothing
by comparison with the loathing and disgust which sprang to
hers as they rested upon his sullen face.
So deep was her feeling of contempt for this man, that the
sudden appearance of him before her startled a single exclamation
from her.
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