And just as he thought that it was all over, the other, fidgeting
in the darkness, was heard again explosive, bewildered but not very loud
in the silence of the ship and the great empty peace of the sea.
"They have done something to him! What is it? What can it be? Can't
you guess? Don't you know?"
"Good heavens!" Young Powell was astounded on discovering that this was
an appeal addressed to him. "How on earth can I know?"
"You do talk to that white-faced, black-eyed . . . I've seen you talking
to her more than a dozen times."
Young Powell, his sympathy suddenly chilled, remarked in a disdainful
tone that Mrs. Anthony's eyes were not black.
"I wish to God she had never set them on the captain, whatever colour
they are," retorted Franklin. "She and that old chap with the scraped
jaws who sits over her and stares down at her dead-white face with his
yellow eyes--confound them! Perhaps you will tell us that his eyes are
not yellow?"
Powell, not interested in the colour of Mr. Smith's eyes, made a vague
gesture. Yellow or not yellow, it was all one to him.
Pages:
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456
457
458
459
460
461
462
463
464
465
466
467
468