She killed a man who was squatting outside of a freezing brick shanty on the southern edge of Chicago as he waited for his dealer. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. She said that she couldn’t stand Mike. ” “Don’t be foolish,” he said sharply. “What do you think you are doing?” He asked. I’d rather not go,” she added. Out of the beaten track, far from the trails of men! He relaxed.
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