Manning relinquished his cup, and looked meaningly at Ann Veronica. He would always see the picture of the huge, raw-boned Dutchman, haranguing and thundering the word of God into the dull ears of South Sea Islanders, who, an hour later, would be carrying fruit penitently to their wooden images. Furious shouting, and the thunder of running feet. "Jack!" she cried, raising her head. “Perhaps,” he queried, “you wish to avoid being seen about with any one—er— connected with the profession, under present circumstances. ‘Nothing. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. “Is that so? Who says?” He demanded, his eyebrows arching as he looked at her with puerile glee.
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