‘Yes, a very sad story,’ agreed the major. Humph. There were white men with families, a fine mission-house, and a club-house for cards and billiards. 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. Slowly she released the hammer on the pistol, uncocking it, and Gerald became conscious that he had been holding his breath.
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