’ Fire enveloped Charvill’s mind and he brought up his cane, pointed like a musket. The young male, as she had actually seen him, had been of the sailor type, hard-bitten, primordial, ruthless. Upon which Mrs. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. In the twilight he had ceased to be a person one could tackle and shame; he had become something more general, a something that crawled and sneaked toward her and would not let her alone. ’ ‘Damn you, answer me!’ Her eyes flashed.
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