She chastised herself for thinking of her husband and lord as being weak. After an hour of waiting, she slammed her bedroom door and he returned to his basement. He would sit in his inner office and compose conversations with her, penetrating, illuminating, and nearly conclusive—conversations that never proved to be of the slightest use at all with her when he met her face to face. 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. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. "And yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me. "Good-bye, young man; and good luck. .
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