Her complexion was wan and faded, except where it was tinged by a slight hectic flush, that made the want of colour more palpable; her eyes were large and black, but heavy and lustreless; her cheeks sunken; her frame emaciated; her dark hair thickly scattered with gray. Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years. Ho-hum! CHAPTER IX The Hong-Kong packet lay alongside the warehouse frontage. It—it is nothing,’ she said, although with a tremor in her voice. Then she went back and mixed up the sheets in a search for particular passages. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. And she, she in her own person too, was this eternal Bios, beginning again its recurrent journey to selection and multiplication and failure or survival. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. At the sight of her he became rigid and a singularly bright shade of pink. . All these interesting objects were carefully arranged, classed, and, as we have said, labelled by the thief-taker.
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