The woman shrugged her shoulders. The office is a sight—not one sheet of paper on another; bills and receipts everywhere. There was a trader—a man who bought copra and pearls. I think that WAS decision. One day she awoke and he was cavorting about underneath the covers. He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be called, a flattened nose, and a brown, leathernlooking hide, that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of tanning. It was like the grin of a fiend, and made my flesh creep on my bones. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. “Sheila and Mark McCloskey?” Michelle asked. “You see, dear, one IS passionately anxious for something—what is it? One wants to be CLEAN. “I’m sorry Mister McCloskey! I was out seeing my boyfriend!” He stared at her concernedly.
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