"I'm sorry," she said. She must not show anything. "I am," replied Jonathan, following him, "and so," he added in an undertone, "are your captors. He stamped his last letter as Annabel entered. “This life is killing me! Oh, it is dull, dull, dull!” Suddenly an idea seemed to strike her. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. Instinctively she imitated this action, chilled and a little frightened at the expression of terror that confronted her. He hadn't played fair. It was, in a way, something of a joke to the doctor: psychology and physiognomy on an island which white folks did not visit more than three or four times a year, only then when they had to.
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