"
"You don't know what you are saying, papa."
She would try not to show her weariness, the nervous strain of these two
men's antagonism around her person which was the cause of her languid
attitudes. For as a matter of fact the sea agreed with her.
As likely as not Anthony would be walking on the other side of the deck.
The strain was making him restless. He couldn't sit still anywhere. He
had tried shutting himself up in his cabin; but that was no good. He
would jump up to rush on deck and tramp, tramp up and down that poop till
he felt ready to drop, without being able to wear down the agitation of
his soul, generous indeed, but weighted by its envelope of blood and
muscle and bone; handicapped by the brain creating precise images and
everlastingly speculating, speculating--looking out for signs, watching
for symptoms.
And Mr. Smith with a slight backward jerk of his small head at the
footsteps on the other side of the skylight would insist in his awful,
hopelessly gentle voice that he knew very well what he was saying. Hadn't
she given herself to that man while he was locked up.
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