How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. ” “Yes,” said Ann Veronica. ” He struck a note, and Anna responded. She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand. Every so often a wall of water, thin and jadecoloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships. Take it, if I die. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees. “I’m ready,” said Ann Veronica, closing her microscope-box with a click, and looking for one brief instant up the laboratory. In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. Another long interval elapsed.
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