The things he said to the maid, in English--the only language that they had apparently in common--would have scandalized a Goanese harbor "guide" or a Rock Scorpion from the lower streets of Gib.

He did not mention marriage to her, beyond admitting that he had half a dozen wives already, and had been too bored by convention ever to submit to the yoke again.

The maid seemed enraptured--delirious in the bight of his lawless arm, forgetful of her wetting, and only afraid when he left her for a minute.
We dared not try to cook anything, even supposing that had been possible.

Forward was a box full of sand to serve as hearthstone, but the little scraps of fuel we had brought with us were drenched and unburnable, even if the risk of being seen were not too great.

Lady Saffren Waldon told us we were "toe-rag contrivers." In fact, now that she was out of reach of the men she feared and hated most, she reverted to type and tried to domineer over us all by the simple old recipe--audacious arrogance.