She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. She went to the table under the end window at which she had been accustomed to work, and found it swept and garnished with full bottles of re-agents. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk. “The white unaggressive woman who corrects and nurses and serves, and is worshipped and betrayed—the martyr-queen of men, the white mother. Gerald began to ease forward, deciding just how he would accost her. ‘Not at all ladylike. “Do you know,” she said, “that every one is remarking how ill you look. . She was too wrapped up in the sheer joy of playing again; it had 201 been intimate, masturbatory. Groans and hoots were now raised by the crowd, and there was an evident disposition to rescue.
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