‘This from a man who calls himself my friend. "What for?" demanded Wood. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. I am a pauper, and as yet I have not discovered how to earn money. “Lucy, my brother is home and I borrowed the cash from him. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast. Lucy loved orchestras, the bittersweet tinge of rosin dust that hung in the air, the way that the sun shone through filthy windows illuminating the marimbas with a storybook light.
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