"He's not my son," rejoined the carpenter. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins. I don't ask you to supply my place—for that is, perhaps, impossible. And now she was witnessing or observing the complicated machinery of civilization through which they had come, at length to land on the beach of her island. I never forgive an injury. Daily contact with actual human beings all the more inclined her toward the imaginative. She waited for him to leave the room, and turned back to Gerald.
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