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Wood's. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. But there is something in your voice that makes me distrust you. —Strype's Stow. "An American. " "Isn't that lagoon gorgeous? I wonder if there'll be sharks?" "Not in the lagoon. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. And, if you hear any odd noise in the parlour, don't mind it. Gerald, intent on his trail, ignored it. If there is any drinking, I'll do it.
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