There was a couple who disappeared. E. Evidently he was gazing at the dull red roofs of the city: but was he registering what he saw? Never glance sideways at man, the old Kanaka woman had said. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. Playing became a way of escape. “She’s my wife,” the man muttered. In after years you can return to your own country—to your friends. He noted that she was fully dressed, that her hair was carefully done, that there was a knotted ribbon around her throat. Now, it was a wilderness of weeds.
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