" He received in
turn from the mulatto's hands a red silk handkerchief, a pocket book, a
cigar-case. He knotted the handkerchief loosely round his throat; it
was evident he was going through the routine of every departure for
the shore; he even opened the cigar-case to see whether it had been
filled.--"Hat, sir," murmured the half-caste. Lingard flung it on his
head.--"Take your orders from this lady, steward--till I come back. The
cabin is hers--do you hear?" He sighed ready to go and seemed unable to
lift a foot.--"I am coming with you," declared Mrs. Travers suddenly in
a tone of unalterable decision. He did not look at her; he did not even
look up; he said nothing, till after Carter had cried: "You can't, Mrs.
Travers!"--when without budging he whispered to himself:--"Of course."
Mrs. Travers had pulled already the hood of her cloak over her head
and her face within the dark cloth had turned an intense and unearthly
white, in which the violet of her eyes appeared unfathomably mysterious.
Carter started forward.--"You don't know this man," he almost shouted.
"I do know him," she said, and before the reproachfully unbelieving
attitude of the other she added, speaking slowly and with emphasis:
"There is not, I verily believe, a single thought or act of his life
that I don't know.
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