After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes. Since the discovery of them, she had been madly eager to read these typewritten tales. We thought of starting in half an hour’s time, and trying for a theatre somewhere on the way. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. She had often wondered if Hoddy would ever go back to it. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. He will be hanged—hanged—hanged. The candle was shaking in his hand as Ruth appeared in the doorway. His eyes were narrow with desire like a panther’s as he grinned at seeing her visibly satisfied. It's almost worth while being sent to prison to have the pleasure of escaping.
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