“Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. But it was only when that damned scoundrel nearly spitted you in the chapel—’ He broke off and, to her intense satisfaction she saw he was not as much in command of himself as he would have her believe. ‘That’s better. Women and men had always flocked to him, covetous of his knowledge, his riches, and if all else failed, his carnal expertise. ’ A trifle discomposed at being caught examining his surroundings, Gerald was provoked into retort. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. "How would you like a job on a copra plantation?" he asked, irrelevantly to the thoughts crowding one another in his mind. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. And, mind! no prevaricating—nothing but the truth will satisfy me.
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