She knew, too, she must not hesitate. Her shoulders began to ache. There was only one idea in his head now—to batter and bruise and crush this weakling, then cast him at the feet of his love-lorn wife. She forgot Anna’s sacrifices, forgot her own callousness, forgot the burden which she had fastened upon her sister’s shoulders. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. “His love-making,” she remarked, “struck me as unconvincing. "What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked.
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