“Like a stab. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. He was way out of her league and it was downright odd that he had obliged himself to talk to her, let alone walk her home. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. I didn’t dream, not even in my wildest dreaming, that—you might have any need of me. Superstition is the Chinese Reaper. ‘You kissed me that you might make me find it for you instead?’ ‘I had no such intention.
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