" Thames turned away at the question, which he felt might be construed into a reproach. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. “Shit!” John quickly countered, “What are you going to do? She’s a motor-mouth, Lucy, of the worst kind. To get behind that impenetrable curtain, to learn why she hated her island. With astonishment, Gerald saw a rheumy film rimming his old commander’s eyes. “It was a phase,” she said.
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