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. It was obviously pitched well, hitting her head at a good thirtyfive miles per hour. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. What!— you know so little of that child? She ran away from you. A woman hard to read, who seemed to delight in keeping locked up behind that fascinating rigidity of feature the intense sensibility which had been revealed to him, her master, only in occasional and rare moments of enthusiasm.
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