The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. Melusine shrugged. 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. “I say, daddy,” she began, and was suddenly short of breath. “Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. And now she was discovering that even Nature was something of a liar, with her mirages and her horizons.
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