At this time of universal havoc and despair,—when all London quaked at the voice of the storm,—the carpenter, who was exposed to its utmost fury, fared better than might have been anticipated. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. She writhed in ecstasy as she wrapped her legs around his waist, then raised her knees to his shoulders. In his desire to be emphatic and to avenge himself for his over-night distresses, he speedily became brutal, more brutal than she had ever known him before. Marina had retired to bed, drinking wine slowly, sleeping when she was not drinking. “I was frightened then,” she declared. Women and men had always flocked to him, covetous of his knowledge, his riches, and if all else failed, his carnal expertise. He looked at her guiltily.
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