Laura said nothing until they were alone with the rushing of the screw, two Lascars, some coils of rope, and the hand-steering gear. Then she opened the packet. “These,” she said, “these are pressing on my mind.”
She held out a string of pearls, a necklace of pearls and turquoises, a heavy band bracelet studded, Delhi fashion, with gems, one or two lesser fantasies.
“Jewellery!” said Markin. “Real or imitation?”
“So far as that goes they are good. Mr. Lindsay gave them to me. But what have I to do with jewels, the very emblem of the folly of the world, the desire that itches in palms that know no good works, the price of sin!” She leaned against the masthead as she spoke, the wind blew her hair and her skirt out toward the following seas. With that look in her eyes she seemed a creature who had alighted on the ship but who could not stay.
Colonel Markin held the pearls up in the moonlight.
“They must have cost something to buy,” he said.
Laura was silent.
“And so they're a trouble to you. Have you taken them to the Lord in prayer?”
“Oh, many times.”
“Couldn't seem to hear any answer?”