“Do white ruffled curtains like those at our windows ever grow musty from being shut up?” he insinuated gently.
“I don’t know.”
“Will you write from every port you touch at? It will take a good many letters to satisfy me.”
“I suppose so.”
“Suppose what? That you will write?”
Juliet stood still. “You’re the greatest wheedler I ever saw,” she said.
“Is that a compliment?”
“It’s not meant for one. What am I to do when I’m——”
“Married to me?—I don’t know, poor child. I can only pity you. What do you think the prospect is for me, never to be able to get the smallest concession from you except by every art of coaxing? Yet—if I can get this thing I want, by any means—I warn you I shall not give up until I’ve seen you sail.”
“You’ll not see me sail.”