‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. No matter what they do, always someone to bolster them up, to lend them money, and to coddle them. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. ’ ‘I do not need the rescue from such as you. Can you afford to give this time? There are your own affairs to think of.
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