When he faced Spurlock, the granite was cracked and rived; never had Spurlock seen such dumb agony in human eyes. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. But Jack and his companion were already gone. From then until four in the afternoon there was nothing to do—the whole island went to sleep. Perhaps for the first time he realized that Anna was by no means an ordinary person. Some of your sex, I mean. Return to him, I say—" "I can't," replied Jack, doggedly.
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