All this— the island and its affairs—was an old story; but her own peculiar distaste had vanished to a point imperceptible, for she was seeing the island through her husband's eyes, as in the future she would see all things. Nothing more forlorn could be conceived. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. "Ah! what is that?" he cried, pointing to a dark object floating near them amid the boiling waves, and which presented a frightful resemblance to a human face. ‘Did she call you that?’ asked Lucilla, amused. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels.
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