She had a feeling at his departure as of an immense cavity, of something enormously gone; she could not tell whether it was infinite regret or infinite relief. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter. I have never been wrong about the sex of an unborn child. ‘Couldn’t reconcile it with my dooty to leave you here—’ A thought made Melusine stop dead, turning to him. If only this man had been her father! The world would have meant nothing; the island would have been wide enough. But after Singapore she found herself enduing them with the characteristics of the heroes in the novels she had just read for the first time. It was not an affair of the conscience; it was vaguely based upon insolence and defiance.
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