"It is her child!" shrieked Rowland, in a voice heard above the howling of the tempest, "risen from this roaring abyss to torment me. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. She’s big, about 5’10”. ‘Who is that man? What has he to do with you? No, don’t tell me. You have neither reason nor logic. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes.
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