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Sisily first opened her eyes on a grey day by a grim coast, and life hadalways been grim and grey to her. Her memory was a blurred record ofwanderings from place to place in pursuit of something which was never tobe found. Her earliest recollection was of a bleak eastern coast, whereRobert Turold had spent long years in a losing game of patience with thesea. He had gone there in the belief that some of his ancestors wereburied in a forgotten churchyard on the cliffs, and he spent his timeattempting to decipher inscriptions which had been obliterated almost aseffectually as the dead whose remains they extolled.
They have not been unhappy years. It was not my disposition to waste mylife by hugging the illusions of the past. My days were occupied walkinglong distances to see my patients scattered at distant intervals on thisdesolate coast, and my nights I spent in antiquarian and archaeologicalstudies, which were always a favourite pursuit of mine. It was a hobbywhich earned me some local repute in the course of the years, and wasultimately the means of bringing me face to face with Robert Turold again.That was the last thing in the world I desired to happen. In the earlyyears I used to think of him wedded to my wife, and wonder whether he hadsucceeded in his great ambition. After a while the memory faded, as mostmemories do with the passing of the years. 781b155fdc