Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. “What have you been doing since our last talk? Still cutting up rabbits and probing into things? I’ve often thought of that talk of ours—often. " O'Higgins emptied an inside pocket—and purposely let the battered photograph fall to the ground. ’ ‘Why did you not claim it yourself?’ asked Gerald. “What you have said is a ridiculous falsehood,” she declared scornfully. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. “What’s that for?” He said. "Not as I loved mine. The library was on the ground floor, Melusine recalled from the previous visit, for she had searched through a desk in a room filled with bookshelves of leatherbound volumes. “No. She was looking about her, and her face was dark with anger. I loitered in the shop as you chatted with the butcher’s girl. Practically all.
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