When he reached the house on Fifth Street and saw these familiar faces, tragedy had left its mark on each. Vesta was pale, her skin almost transparent, and her freckles more than ordinarily conspicuous. They would have been ludicrous if they were not so pitiful. But Vesta herself, as though to ward off sympathy, spoke in tart accents, completely unlike her accustomed tone. Watching her, Trav felt tenderness in him like an insupportable burden; he fought down a resurgence of that storm of rage at war and at all the bloody works of man which had swept upon him on the night-shrouded battlefield at Williamsburg. All of them that day at Cinda’s were like actors in a play; they spoke as though by rote, and there was a false note in everything they said. This was particularly true of Vesta. She was quick with sarcastic comment, meant to sting and bruise. It was as though to hurt others somehow dulled her own pain. Thus when Brett who had been at home since Friday said politely: “I’m told General Longstreet did fine work at Williamsburg,”
