She felt she had to go on. Presently, however, a sudden movement occurred, and disclosed his features, which were those of a young man of nearly his own age. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. Her attenuated arms were crossed upon her breast; and her black brows and eyelashes contrasted fearfully with the livid whiteness of her skin. He himself had deadened the sound by closing the door. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. She pulled a few strands of her hair from her head to leave with Michelle’s.
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