The daughters, he had hoped, would be their mother’s care. The grim mockery of it!—those South Sea loafers, taking advantage of Enschede's Christianity and imposing upon him, accepting his money and medicines and laughing behind his back! No doubt they made the name a byword and a subject for ribald jest in the waterfront bars. She foraged about in her mind for some satisfying equivalent which would express in English this gurgling drone the Chinese called a language. We're lost. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. ‘What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at?’ ‘Let me alone, man,’ Gerald muttered under his breath.
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