To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. . ” “And biology was beginning to bore me a bit. I don’t suppose a girl can tell if a man is in love with her or not in love with her. ‘Do you need an excuse?’ ‘Oh, you know what doctors are. Do sit down, dear boy. The flush deck was without wells. And I’ve read, and thought, and guessed, and looked—until MY innocence—it’s smirched.
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