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. Mother had met with him two years before to begin the process of finding a match. “I have nothing to say to you. Her little bedsitting-room was like a lair, and she went out from it into this vast, dun world, with its smoke-gray houses, its glaring streets of shops, its dark streets of homes, its orange-lit windows, under skies of dull copper or muddy gray or black, much as an animal goes out to seek food. “I hate you because you are the Devil! Rot in Hell!” She was shocked at her own accusation, how she had savored the words. It is no good waiving the thing; it is true. “Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. I’ll need you to go back to the barracks and fetch more men up to town. Nab and Quilt to the door! Jack, you are my prisoner. ’ ‘She once more,’ came in disgust from the girl on the bed. I don’t care.
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