" "That kind of talk makes you sound like a white man. ’ ‘I’m that sorry, miss,’ Kimble said glumly. ” “I’m so glad. ” She was silent for a time, with her nose on the pillow, and that brought her to: “What’s the good of pretending? “I love him,” she said aloud to the dim forms of her room, and repeated it, and went on to imagine herself doing acts of tragically dog-like devotion to the biologist, who, for the purposes of the drama, remained entirely unconscious of and indifferent to her proceedings. Nobody can trust you. But what he could do or might do she could not imagine. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. Don’t favour your father much, either, if it comes to that.
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