She held up the lamp. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. ‘What would you? The nuns they would not believe me, and so it was not possible for me to stay. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. Swiftly she ran her hands over the carvings, trying to find the lever to the secret panel again. “Never mind the bill,” said Manning tragically, standing up and thrusting a four-shilling piece into her hand, and turning a broad back on her astonishment. Very doubtful.
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