‘How in God’s name did the wretched fellow get in then?’ ‘Dug a tunnel?’ suggested Gerald, halting next to a pair of French windows at the front. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. Jack, whose clothes were covered with dust, and whose face was deathly pale from his recent exertion, looked more like a phantom than a living person. His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls. The new and the old cancelled out; his daughters became quasi-independent dependents—which is absurd. I was born on an island in the South Seas.
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