The afternoon had passed now into twilight. There is a small yewtree west of the church. ‘Come inside at once, child. “I hate this!” Lucy accused him, pointing to the Michelle. Then a handkerchief was thrown over the cage, to prevent the bird from singing; it was her favourite canary. His complexion was pale; and there was something sinister in the expression of his large black eyes. 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. At length, after he had given up the point from sheer exhaustion, the Amazon seized him by the throat, and pushed him backwards with such force that he rolled over the counter. It was Blueskin.
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