. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. A single blanket constituted his sole covering at night. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. He was always forgetting that his tummy was fifty-four years old. He felt he was human wisdom prudentially interpolated. But, by Jove! you are fierce! You are like those Roman women who carry stilettos in their hair. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative.
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