Doubts began to rise up all about her, plucking at her confidence. “Politics!” Ennison answered grimly. Instead, her husband was probably wise. The island had evidently grown round this lagoon, approached it gradually from the volcanic upheaval—an island of coral and lava. Her fingers clutched the side of the door as though to steady herself. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. ” She peered at him through the semi-blackness.
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