“She wasn’t sane, my wife. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. I am your husband, though as yet your hand has scarcely lain in mine. Chapter VI A QUESTION OF IDENTIFICATION The little man with the closely-cropped beard and hair looked at her keenly through his gold eye-glasses. Shouting to his companion, even as they passed by where I hid myself, he called out that he thought to find you at the convent. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. He seemed happy with her, finding her proper and seemly. My son went down after his death. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror.
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