She is your sister, and God knows I wish her none. ’ For the moment I thought it was a telegram from Gwen. He growled in his throat and, thrusting his coat open, revealed his own buckled sword-belt. He could not know about the Remenham connection, could he? No one knew but her father and Martha. He would always see the picture of the huge, raw-boned Dutchman, haranguing and thundering the word of God into the dull ears of South Sea Islanders, who, an hour later, would be carrying fruit penitently to their wooden images. Observe it—a blue-serge coat. After all—’ ‘Yes, but I do not wish to see him,’ Melusine protested.
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