Or else I would have finished him. In Europe or in America people would have smiled; but in Singapore—the half-way port of the world—where a human kaleidoscope tumbles continuously east and west, no one had remarked her. He became angry. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. “There are some people,” he said at last, “who seem fated to carry on their shoulders the burdens of other people. John’s demeanor shifted. Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury.
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