Instantly I knew that I was going to run away that night before he returned from the neighbouring island. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention. But we've got to cook up some kind of a story to protect her.
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