She nibbled at his neck gently, sweetly, as her hand tracing his chest. The policemen were closing in from the sides to intervene. At length, after he had given up the point from sheer exhaustion, the Amazon seized him by the throat, and pushed him backwards with such force that he rolled over the counter. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. A series of photographs were taken of them: her on the stairs, the couple of them on the stairs, the couple of them in the kitchen, him pinning a red rose corsage with great care and acute sexual frustration. She mewed weakly, “Sebastian? What have you done? Where is Gianfrancesco? Did you kill him?” He crossed his arms. It was, in a way, something of a joke to the doctor: psychology and physiognomy on an island which white folks did not visit more than three or four times a year, only then when they had to. His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up.
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