And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. He'll mend, I hope. That dress she has on—my mother might have worn it. ‘I am not a person, Marthe. He glanced out of the window, looked back at the major and grasped the handle of the door. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. In a second the glass lay shattered upon the carpet. What right had a young woman to possess the scarring and intimate knowledge of that dreg of human society, the beachcomber? CHAPTER II Ah Cum lived at No.
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