Quite soon, after we were married—it was just within a year—I formed a friendship with the wife of a friend, a woman eight years older than myself. 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. “Quite right,” she said. Like the flaws of an old marble. It’s a tremendous blow, of course—but it doesn’t kill me. He was certain that those lips of hers had never known the natural and pardonable simper of youth. It was situated off a little hallway that led also to the kitchens and the back door to the outside. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. In one of the big gates was a little door, and she rapped at this.
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