The slack cloth of her habit caught on a curlicue in the carved back of the pew in front, pulling her suddenly about. She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. The way it had happened was stupid, absurd. She leaned forward in her chair, as if petrified in fear by the scary story. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. "Victoria; that's the hotel.
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