“Dear me!” he said. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. You must keep out of the way till it's blown over. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. That was one of the mysterious qualities of this child of the lagoon: she had always at instant service that Oriental mask of impenetrable calm that no Occidental trick could dislodge. “No, Lucy, because Satan does not exist.
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