She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. There’s no logic in these things. Frequently he would take up a box of talc and send a shower down his back, or fill his palms with the powder and rub his face and arms and hands. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present.
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