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"Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. In Larry’s old Cadillac sedan, she sat in the backseat as Larry drove and Cathy sat beside him. She had been obliged to wait all morning for the opportunity to talk to Martha, who chose always to retire to her cell for the period of recreation that preceded afternoon prayers. “It seems so unfair,” she said, “to take all you offer me and give so little in return. She was not afraid of violence, but she was afraid of something mean, some secondary kind of force. The grim mockery of it!—those South Sea loafers, taking advantage of Enschede's Christianity and imposing upon him, accepting his money and medicines and laughing behind his back! No doubt they made the name a byword and a subject for ribald jest in the waterfront bars.
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