The day wore, the sun went down, the starlit sky made beautiful a parched earth, but never a word in privacy did Iris exchange with her husband-to-be.

Carmela's malice was not hidden from her, but she despised it.

There was some ease for her tortured brain in defeating it.

If the Senhora De Sylva had only understood how thoroughly the Englishwoman loathed her petty jealousy, it was possible that the few remaining hours of their enforced intimacy might have been rendered less irksome.
But, by this time, fate had gathered the slackened strings of their destinies.

Thenceforth they became her puppets.