CHAPTER XXI McClintock's island was twelve miles long and eight miles wide, with the shape of an oyster. ‘Your wife?’ ‘My wife,’ he repeated, rising also, his smile mocking her. Wood. I don’t mind it. She must kill this man, or kill herself. Had Gosse taken it as he escaped? What could she do? Gosse now knew that she was the daughter of Mary Remenham. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. And Ramage too—about Ramage there would always be that air of avidity, that air of knowledge and inquiry, the mixture of things in his talk that were rather good with things that were rather poor.
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