“Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. No matter how much you tell me, you will always keep something back. He had reacted by laughing at her, informing her coolly that she was naïve in many things. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. Hill closed his eyes. It was impulsive and natural. Not if I read her aright.
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