"Who, then?" demanded Jack. From the beginning. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. It would have been better had he succeeded in murdering her, she thought. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. Capes was something superadded. "Whose grave is this?" he inquired of a man who was standing near it. “I’m damned if I’ll believe it,” he muttered to himself savagely. Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent.
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