“I am lonely. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. ‘Talk to me another time. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. She was quite oblivious to the sensation she had created. . What sort of a standard of life yours may be I do not know, yet in your heart you know very well that every word you have spoken to me has been a veiled insult, every time you have come into my presence has been an outrage. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. The tropical dawn is swift. He heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. You have made for yourself a unique place upon the stage.
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