There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. Wood's boat, impelled alike by oar and tide, shot past the mark at which it aimed; and before it could be again brought about, the struggle had terminated. It was grated and crested with spikes, like that he had just burst open, and thinking it a needless waste of time to force it, he broke off one of the spikes, which he carried with him for further purposes, and then climbed over it. A disconcerting gray eye that had a mystifying depth. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. She had just managed to reach it, grabbing for the handle, when the enemy’s cracked command halted her.
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