It was all a game of misery in which some one stood to lose all round.
Who was it: she, or I, or the refugee of misfortune, Number 116 Intermediate?
She seemed safe enough.

He or I would suffer in the crash of penalties.
It was a strange situation.

I, the acquaintance of a day, was welcome within the circle of this woman's favour--though it was an unemotional favour on her side; he, the husband, as I believed, though only half the length of the ship away, was as distant from her as the north star.

When I sat with her on deck at night, I seemed to feel Boyd Madras's face looking at me from the half-darkness of the after-deck; and Mrs.
Falchion, whose keen eyes missed little, remarked once on my gaze in that direction.

Thereafter I was more careful, but the idea haunted me.