The young male, as she had actually seen him, had been of the sailor type, hard-bitten, primordial, ruthless. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. If I'd not gone mad, they would have hanged me. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. It became suddenly glaringly apparent to her that it was impossible to return fifteen pounds or any sum less than twenty pounds to Ramage—absolutely impossible. I shall take to him as nat'ral as if he were my own flesh and blood afore long. For her mother to betray her seemed inevitable, but the betrayal seemed worse than her fate. Enschede: no human emotion should ever again shuttle between him and God.
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