This man was her husband in the eyes of both God and man. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. ‘Odd sort of a nun. Then she looked at her aunt, and traced with a curious eye the careful arrangement of her hair, her sharp nose, the little drooping lines of mouth and chin and cheek. Of course, it really signified nothing in this careless part of the world that she was travelling alone. The decision had been sound. She felt terrible lying to him. “Unless you have an appointment, which you haven’t,” he said, “you’ll only waste your time here. Wait a second.
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