He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. Which were perfectly true, as Gerald was aware. “When are you going away?” He asked. She had suddenly become as the jewels of the Madonna, as the idol's eye, infinitely beyond his reach, sacred. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. But where in the world was the girl? A door led to another chamber beyond. Wild has made up his mind, and, when that's the case, all the persuasion on earth won't turn him.
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