“Because I hate you!” She spat. On this side a flight of wooden steps, protected by a hand-rail, led to a door opening upon the summit of the prison. She screamed at Sebastian. A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. He was a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men in the Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. “That is as you will,” she said. Why? If she had put the query to herself, she could not have answered it.
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