She could feel her face turning beet red. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. “It was perhaps my fault. Everything goes—the copra for oil, the fibre of the husk for rope, and the shell for carbon. ’ ‘Don’t start arguing again, for God’s sake,’ snapped Roding irritably, dragging out his own large pocket-handkerchief. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable.
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