It is the old story of a Westerner meddling with an Eastern custom. "You've ruined my hopes. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. “You underestimate your own sickness, and the ill humors that struck you may strike again. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping.
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