It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. It was true. Wood started to his feet. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. Let me go, Sir. Pramlay lived for amenities and the mellowed surfaces of things. “You cannot seriously believe,” he said, “that at the present moment I care a snap of the fingers whether I have any dinner or not. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. He, therefore, desires to interrogate him.
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