She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. For all you might know, I might have someone watching you. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. She was no longer certain that she desired an Englishman, if she must judge of one in particular. She turned about, and was persecuted by visions, half memories, half dreams, of Ramage.
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