They sold him the whisky. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. "Do you compare your love—a love which all may purchase—with hers? No one has ever loved me. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. She addressed an envelope to Ramage, and scrawled on a half-sheet of paper, “The rest shall follow. Go and prepare for our departure. The address was of course her destination, thousands of miles away, an infinitesimal spot in a terrifying space. She crawled over and caught at the skirts of this white woman who understood. “He is addressing a meeting of his constituents somewhere,” Annabel answered.
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