The man in the chimney no longer bothered him.
Whoever and whatever he was, he had not shot his bolt soon enough.
Hildegarde von Mitter.

He stopped against the rail.

The yacht was burying her nose now, and the white drift from her cut-water seemed strangely luminous as it swirled obliquely away in the fading twilight.
Hildegarde von Mitter.

Was she to be the flaw in the chain?
No, no; there should be no regret; he had steeled his heart against any such weakness.

She had been necessary, and he would be a fool to pause over a bit of sentimentality.