speaking of colors...
lining one block of main street were the "attractions"-- two hot-dog stands, a lemonade and pop-corn stand, a merry- go-round, and booths in which balls might be thrown at rag dolls, if one wished to throw balls at rag dolls. the dignified delegates were shy of the booths, but country boys with brickred necks and pale-blue ties and bright-yellow shoes, who had brought sweethearts into town in somewhat dusty and listed fords, were wolfing sandwiches, drinking strawberry pop out of bottles, and riding the revolving crimson and gold horses.
the track up to this time had reached its highest elevation at the great salt lake. from this point it described a long curve, descending towards bitter creek valley, to rise again to the dividing ridge of the waters between the atlantic and the pacific.
"you're burnt so brown, and i be 'most blind with misery. oh, whoever sent you here, my dear mr. will, then, to save a poor wretch from the pit?"
"who on earth are you?"
"lucy passmore, the white witch to welcombe. don't you mind lucy passmore, as charmed your warts for you when you was a boy?"
"lucy passmore!" almost shrieked all three friends. "she that went off with--"
"yes! she that sold her own soul, and persuaded that dear saint to sell hers; she that did the devil's work, and has taken the devil's wages;--after this fashion!" and she held up her scarred wrists wildly.