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. “Thank you—for coming,” he said. Hill was exchanging greetings with his hostess, and salutations around the table. She was sore with the perplexities of her preposterous position. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. The white veil had fallen to the ground and Gerald retrieved it for her. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. “I’d never have a day of peace again, John.
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