She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. Everett’s gaze dropped to the papers in his hand. Snatching-up his pistols, he rushed to the door, but to his horror found it fastened. But I’d have done it without, though it weren’t my place. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. He waited for an instant, wasting an encouraging smile in the imperfect light, and then shut the doors of the van, leaving the women in darkness. “Well?” she said, sitting down again.
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