Like a hare closely pressed, Jack attempted to double, but the device only brought him nearer his foes, who were crossing the field in every direction, and rending the air with their shouts. . . Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. He took a handful of almonds and raisins that she held out to him—for both these young people had given up the practice of going out for luncheon—and kept her hand for a moment to kiss her finger-tips. As much as it killed her, she kept her mouth shut. Anna raised her eyebrows at the sight of him. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. "In my opinion, Sir Rowland," suggested Jonathan; "you'd better allow the court to remain open. But they were old enough to start remembering you as mother, and we cannot have that.
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