The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. The less she lived, in fact, the better. There were swift actions, too: a Kanaka crawled out upon the bowsprit to make taut a slack stay, while two others with pulley-blocks swarmed aloft. These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. And Leonardo told me never to trust any man. He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. ‘Truth is, it’s Gerald who’s put me in the devil’s own temper, ma’am.
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