All we do is for your good. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. “I am exceedingly sorry,” he said. I need scarcely ask whether you've executed your appointed task, my dear? You're never behindhand. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. What had shifted his casual interest was the visible prospect of a party of three who were coming down the packet gangplank. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated.
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