I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. “I can’t. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. She had fallen into it naturally, the only expression of the dance she had ever seen or known, and that a stolen sweet.
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