They talked lightly and smoked cigarettes till Anna, with a little laugh, threw open the window and let in the cool night air. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast. For so far she had kept it uncashed. He was really very bright and clever, with a sort of conversational boldness that was just within the limits of permissible daring. We felt like thieves. It was cramped even at the end of the passage. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. Their minds are turned against him. But I've stacks of books and a grand piano-player.
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