Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. But, in spite of his general insensibility to such matters, Quilt could not help commenting upon the delicious perfume wafted from the numerous flower-beds past which they were driving. A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water. S. “Annabel at last,” he shouted. We can’t. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him.
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