There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts. At length, about an hour before dawn on the second day—Sunday—having spent the early part of the night in watching at the gates of the robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from want of rest, she set out homewards. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. Where was the message? Where was Gerald? Until he came back, what was there for her to do? Eh bien, it made no sense to do anything.
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