Diane spooned warm apple-rhubarb pie onto the girl’s plates, topping each with scoops of ice cream. I thought that Hill was dead, but I was frightened, and I wanted to get away from Paris. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. “This,” he exclaimed, “must be either the indifference of an utterly callous nature, or it may be—ye gods, it may be—innocence. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. Bullding,” she declared.
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