At night she would turn it in her fingers like a rosary bead. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. A young man with shiny frock coat and very high collar, advanced towards her languidly. All this— the island and its affairs—was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's eyes, as in the future she would see all things. She marvelled at his apparent imperviousness to the heat. But he might have crept along the left side of the pier, and beneath the further arch; whereas, Wood, as we have seen, took his course upon the right. It needs cultivating, I think. He’s a footman who works for the nuns and has taken up the cudgels on her behalf. There never is much left for me. The troops had kept a large space clear around the gallows. ‘Monsieur, my wife intended not to anger you,’ he said in a tone of apology. .
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