“She must go her own way. I've an idea it'll be that long before the chap gets up. Trenchard glanced at the document. Spare him!—pity me!" With this she arose, and, taking up the infant, was about to proceed down stairs, when she was alarmed by hearing the street-door opened, and the sound of heavy footsteps entering the house. Lucy sprinted to one side to avoid the crash and grabbed at Rhea’s solitary patch of yellow hair, which ripped out loosely in one decayed piece like strands of rotten corn silk. She took the piece of paper and unfolded it in the safety of her lap. Even an unlikely episode such as this could not be ignored. But it was only six-thirty. Pearls in the dawn light, flashing and burning! "You don't like your island?" "I hate it!… But, there!"—weariness edging in.
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