‘You have said you do not wish to marry me,’ she accused. He dined, and then pleaded a political engagement. And if I don’t, I go mad. He never felt any need to explain himself. She wondered abjectly whether he intended to rape her before she was dead. A young lad—Roding took him for a footman, or a groom by the neat black garb—was halted some paces away from Valade, his hat in his hand as he made pretence of fanning himself. Dreams of adorable infants danced through her head as she cradled blankets in her arms. It was, in a way, something of a joke to the doctor: psychology and physiognomy on an island which white folks did not visit more than three or four times a year, only then when they had to.
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