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. "What's this here kinchen in for?" asked Terence, as he and Quilt strode along, with Thames between them. The figure of the girl upon it in plain black dress, standing with her hands behind her, was an undeniable and astonishing likeness of herself. "Is this her work?" "It is," answered Thames. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. Wood.
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