It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. She had only to get through this, to solace Manning as much as she could, to put such clumsy plasterings on his wounds as were possible, and then, anyhow, she would be free—free to put her fate to the test. A piece of seaweed touched her hand, tender and green. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home.
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