CHAPTER XXII Every morning at dawn it was Spurlock's custom to take a plunge in the lagoon. To the practised eye of the waterman matters wore a very different air. “Who’ll mind the baby nar?” was one of the night’s inspirations, and very frequent. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm. . She entered the last room, his bedroom. . Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other.
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