“No, I am alone,” she answered. And yet, mulling it over, he began to understand why the white man was so powerful in the world: he was taught loyalty and fair play in his schools, and he carried this spirit the world which his forebears had conquered. He could see lust virtually dripping from the dark-haired boy’s maw as she teased every last note from her shuddering violin, the devil in a black skirt. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. But at this point he was still subservient, still outwardly humble, in spite of the blackhearted villainy that was even then burgeoning in his breast. He had diverged only a little from the truth when he said that his chief interest in life was women. Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring.
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