‘Why do you think I told you about the portrait? I’d not seen it, of course, but I’d seen Miss Mary just before she got married, which is when it was painted. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. ’ *** Gerald Alderley stepped out of a house he had been visiting in Hamilton Place and the door closed behind him. The haste to send her upon her way now had but one interpretation—the recognition of his own immediate danger, the fear that if this tender association continued, he would end in offering her a calamity quite as impossible as that which had happened—the love of a man who was in all probability older than her father! The hurt was no less intensive because it was so ridiculous. He was snoring stupidly. If only Gerald would come. They are their mother’s sons. He stood completely still as she moved her tongue up and down its shaft.
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