” “I suppose this makes you an actress?” said Ann Veronica. You will find it somewhere in that book. In the heart of the jungle the dog had his private muck baths. He never asked questions; he never addressed his companions; and frequently he took off his cap and wiped his forehead. “Indeed, no,” he answered. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. Understand me. His absence was thought by the charitable to be from grief. The unfortunate carpenter struggled violently, but ineffectually. Ann Veronica sat back in an attitude of inattention, her eyes on a distant game of cricket, her mind perplexed and busy. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. 175 “Before you tell me the whole story,” she emphasized the penultimate word, “just let me do something for you. Lucy inhaled deeply. ” “You shall have every penny of it back.
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