"She wouldn't let me go. He touched her breast as if he was testing the waters of a cold lake. A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. Around her neck was a little gold chain. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. With the broken links of the chain, which served him in lieu of more efficient implements, he commenced operations just above the chimney-piece, and soon contrived to pick a hole in the plaster. ’ Charvill eyed the girl with resentment. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. ‘This journey I do not like,’ she said more loudly.
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