She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites. There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. Michelle was too polite to put it into words. Swinging her arm in an arc, she let go of the foil and it flew across the chapel towards the main door, crashing down between the pews, and clattering onto the floor. Ruth is not another man's wife; she is all your own, for better or for worse.
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