“I do not suppose he will be home till late. I asked him—to take me away. The key is in my trousers. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. I had to sell out, you see, when my father died, for the estate is in my hands. He kept at it even on those nights when the monsoon began to break with heavy storms and he had to weight down with stones everything on his table. These passers-by who touch us but lightly and are gone, leaving the eternal imprint! So long as she lived, Ruth would always remember that embrace. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. Did he like freaks? She opened her black umbrella, her giant sun deflector.
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