” John traced his finger over the meeting point of her breast and her ribcage as they lay naked on his unmade bed. Consternation gripped him. He disappeared into its thick doors like a magician’s rabbit. Her secret thoughts made some hasty, half-hearted excursions into the possibility of telling the thing in romantic tones—Ramage was as a black villain, she as a white, fantastically white, maiden. ‘You cannot mean General Charvill?’ ‘That old martinet?’ exclaimed Roding. She laughed a little contemptuously. You could not have aided and assisted us more effectively by trying to drown yourself in the sea.
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