“A man who does not touch his wife, who ignores his wife, what kind of man is he? I am not sick any more. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Faintly bothered by what it might mean, Gerald rose from his seat and crossed to the tray to pour himself a glass of wine. These women could not be bad, else the hotel would not have permitted them to enter! Still, the scene presented a riddle: to give immunity to the black women who went about all but naked and to damn the white for exposing their shoulders! She had eaten but little; all her hunger had been in her eyes—and in her heart.
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