She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. Even he was not oblivious to it, and after about two minutes of awkward French kissing, he pulled away. "One last embrace. Silk. ” He came towards her with that in his face which filled her with blind terror. Do not be a fool, Jacques. He was leaning against a window frame, his hat in his hand. "Well?" he whispered. She doesn't love you; she hasn't the least idea what it means beyond what she has read in novels.
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