He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat. “Dear me! I wonder what I ought to do. Nobody can anticipate your next move. “I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face. Thank goodness you’ll understand. Again silence. “I see the pointer,” she said. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. He doesn't resemble you at all.
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