“Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. Tell him about the island, the coconut dance, the wooden tom-toms; read to him. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. She plucked at the knots of her racket and heard him to the end, then spoke in a restrained undertone. ” “It is for your good—your good only I am thinking,” he declared.
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