She spoke English with no perceptible accent, as she spoke Spanish, Italian, French, Hungarian and Greek; and there was nothing in her speech marking her as different from the ordinary Western woman.

Certainly she would have been considered pure English among the polyglot population of Manitou.
What must she say?
What was it her duty to say?
She was living the life of a British woman, she was as much a Gorgio in her daily existence as this man be side her.

Manitou was as much home--nay, it was a thousand times more home--than the shifting habitat of the days when they wandered from the Caspians to John o' Groat's.
For years all traces of the past had been removed as completely as though the tide had washed over them; for years it had been so, until the fateful day when she ran the Carillon Rapids.

That day saw her whole horizon alter; that day saw this man beside her enter on the stage of her life.

And on that very day, also, came Jethro Fawe out of the Past and demanded her return.
That had been a day of Destiny.