She wondered then why she had come, and felt very frightened and lonely.
In all this big ship was no one who would care if she fell overboard
into the muddy water; in all the world except at Lashnagar, which was
sliding away from her with every beat of the ship's heart, there was no
one who knew her except an unknown, almost legendary, uncle. She sat
down on a covered hatchway, suddenly a little weak at the knees.
People passed and repassed, worrying the stewards with foolish and
unnecessary questions, which they answered vaguely as they hurried by.
The thin girl stood leaning over the rail watching the brown shores that
imprisoned her sister: four men who had apparently already made friends
came along and sat down by Marcella, exchanging plans. One of them was
horribly pock-marked; a younger man with red hair, queer shifty eyes and
a habit of gesticulating a great deal when he talked was apparently
going out with him. As the mudflats of the Thames glided by dreamily
Marcella found their conversation slipping into her consciousness. The
man with the red hair was talking: as he waved his right hand she saw
that it had the three middle fingers missing. Her eyes followed it as if
it hypnotized her.
"Going out to Sydney?" asked the pock-marked man of the two young farm
hands who were staring about them open-mouthed.
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