The sea was wonderfully calm to-day--placid and tranquil as some inland
lake, and edged with baby wavelets which came creeping tentatively upward
to curl over on the sand like a fringe of downy feathers. Ann could not
help vividly recalling the day when she had so nearly lost her life at that
very spot. It seemed incredible that this quiet sea, with its gentle,
crooning voice no louder than a rhythmic whisper, could be one and the same
with the turbulent, thunderous monster which had almost beaten the breath
out of her body.
And then her thoughts turned involuntarily to Brett Forrester. He was
not unlike the sea, she reflected, in his sudden, unexpected changes
of mood--with the buoyant charm he could exert when he chose, and that
contrasting turbulence of his which left whoever ventured to oppose him
feeling altogether breathless and battered.
Latterly, Ann had been finding it very difficult to understand him. Since
the night of the dinner on board the _Sphinx_ he had studiously refrained
from the slightest attempt to make love to her. Sometimes, indeed, she was
almost tempted to ask herself if that violent scene on the yacht could
really have occurred between them or whether she had only dreamt it.
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