A hand of iron fell upon the scowling young man’s shoulder. Her aunt went off at a tangent. There was a trader—a man who bought copra and pearls. ‘That rascally knave sent you to become a French nun?’ Looking positively terrified, the girl nodded dumbly. "Why were you afraid to show me this picture, Winny?" asked the youth. " "A child!" thought Wood; it must be the fugitive Darrell. Melusine, starved of colour for years, revelled in it. “What do you think of that?” he asked. "I never told anybody," she went on. It was, Ann Veronica felt, as a sip or so of that remarkable blend warmed her blood, just the sort of thing that her aunt would not approve, to be lunching thus, tete-a-tete with a man; and yet at the same time it was a perfectly innocent as well as agreeable proceeding.
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