The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. "Who's there?" cried Rachel. Nor had Jack been idle all this time. She ignored his question. "But we must be getting along if we are to lunch in the tower of the water-clock. The tropical dawn is swift. Drenched to the skin,—in fact, he had been lying in a bed of muddy water,—and chilled to the very bone, he felt so stiff, that he could scarcely move. Annabel saw it, and suddenly changed her tone.
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