Her mother had prepared her for everything. This "fatal retreat for the unfortunate brave" was marked by a low wooden railing, within which stood the triple tree. ‘Ask him. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. The question ceased to be a tea-table talk, and became suddenly tragically real for Ann Veronica. There stepped forth a tall brown man. And Ann Veronica walked beside him, trying in vain to soften her heart to him by the thought of how she had ill-used him, and all the time, as her feet and mind grew weary together, rejoicing more and more that at the cost of this one interminable walk she escaped the prospect of—what was it?—“Ten thousand days, ten thousand nights” in his company.
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