A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. "You have all the world before you. “Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. She looked more than her sixty odd years, in spite of a still lush head of black hair, streaked with a little grey, which was visible under her cap and of immediate interest to Gerald. "She considers her future blasted beyond hope.
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