‘I might have killed you,’ she snapped, ‘if only you did not say anything. But seriously, things are not so bad as you think. But it was clear she was in no mood for Teddys. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. Instinct had forced her to create something out of rags to satisfy a mysterious craving. Rot, no doubt; but we can’t alter it. Knowing the South Seas from hearsay and by travel, he knew something of that inertia which blunted the fineness, innate and acquired, of white men and women, the eternal warfare against indifference and slovenliness.
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