“Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. Too easily roused emotions and too little passion. She could feel his warm little body trying to snuggle into her, trying to wriggle loose of his swaddling cloth.
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