. . He must be a stranger, I think--by the
way he's staring up at the town."
"Ylario was bred and born here; of uncertain parents, to be sure--"
She laughed. "Foolish! . . . I meant the inspector, of course."
"What's he like?" asked Farrell. "Report."
She lowered the glass, twisted the screw of it idly, and returned to
her hammock-chair, beside which she set it down on the veranda floor.
"Now I'll make a confession to you," she said, picking up her guitar
and throwing her body back in the chair. "I love you," she said.
"When you are close, and alone with me, my heart feels as if it could
melt into yours. . . . No, don't get up: you shall have your kiss, in
good time. But when you--what shall I say?--when you _all-white_ men
are at all far off, or when many of you are together, I cannot well
distinguish. . . . Ah, pardon me, beloved! Haven't you had that
trouble with people of other races than your own--among a crowd of
Japanese, say? And the shepherds on the mountains behind here--have
you not wondered how they can know every sheep in a flock of many
hundred?"
Farrell was on his feet by this time, and in something of a passion.
Pages:
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302