“Why,” muttered Hawthorn, “did I ever set foot on this accursed ship?” He stalked across the room—narrowly avoiding Chapman and the furniture—and turned Maud’s face in his hands, somewhere between clinical and avuncular, frowning down at the split lip. “Maud Blyth. You are a terror and you should not be allowed to run loose in the world.” Maud’s smile looked shaky. “Robin always says that.” “He has more sense than I thought.”
