He refused to believe that Anna was not ‘Alcide. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. Let her have her own way in all things, for she will always be just. ‘Ah, the tragedy. A forgotten island beyond the ship lanes, where that grim Hand would falter and move blindly in its search for him! From what he had read, there wouldn't be much to do; and in the idle hours he could write.
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