He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. Another glass, Jack. The blast once more swept over the agitated river: whirled off the sheets of foam, scattered them far and wide in rain-drops, and left the raging torrent blacker than before. She looked about, watching a massive green storm cloud building in the west. Clothes. Then a surge of rage welled up. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. "Shotbolt! by—" cried Austin, as the captive was dragged forth.
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