For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. "Would I had never seen either of you!" cried Jack, rising and pacing the apartment with a hurried step. He stood up and she ushered him out of the small room. The entrance of the house 85 was grand, and upon entering she was immediately greeted by John’s mother, a tall, thin woman quite a few years older than Cathy Beck. She received into her slack grasp the pistol and dagger, only half aware of taking them. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects.
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