‘He told me everything, if you mean Gerald. I must tell somebody—and you would understand. Women never throw themselves into each other's arms; they calculate the distance and the damage perfectly. . . “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. In the pause a door could be heard opening and closing on the landing up-stairs. Her glasses moved quickly as her glance travelled from face to face. "What's the matter?" he cried. It might as well be Melusine herself. She crawled over and caught at the skirts of this white woman who understood. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. Lost ground must be regained. .
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