‘I do not believe you. ” “You like me?” “Yes. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Wait a second. White said. You have converted me to—Lester Ward! You are my dear friend, you are a slip of a girl, but there are moments when my head has been on your breast, when your heart has been beating close to my ears, when I have known you for the goddess, when I have wished myself your slave, when I have wished that you could kill me for the joy of being killed by you. These amazing infants! Suddenly he came upon the true solution: that the boy hadn't meant to steal whatever it was he had stolen. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed.
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