Too many. Spurlock bent his head to his knees. All at once they came to the top, the faded blue sky overhead, and whichever way he looked, the horizon, the great rocking circle which hemmed them in. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain.
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