It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. ‘Let it fall!’ ‘Brute!’ she spat, struggling, and he knew at once he had guessed aright. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. She did not want to go to the doctor's people; however kindly that might be, they would be only curious strangers. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood.
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