Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves. Ah Cum presented his black-bordered card to such individuals as seemed likely to require his services. He saw her, dripping with rosy pearls, rise out of the lagoon in the dawn light: he saw her flashing to and fro among the coco palms in the moonshine: he saw her breasting the hurricane, her body as full of grace and beauty as the Winged Victory of the Louvre. Only think how compromising. People shrug their shoulders and call me a crazy socialist. “Touch a hair on his head and you will insure that I will never make love to you again. ” Her father’s irony deepened.
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