It was eleven o'clock. You have converted me to—Lester Ward! You are my dear friend, you are a slip of a girl, but there are moments when my head has been on your breast, when your heart has been beating close to my ears, when I have known you for the goddess, when I have wished myself your slave, when I have wished that you could kill me for the joy of being killed by you. I need a white man, if only to talk to; and it will be a god send to talk to someone of your intelligence. For what she lacked in appearance, Sheila compensated in gossip. ‘Who have lately joined us,’ she said, adding sotto voce, ‘A very great tragedy.
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