s of Pompeii, The Marble Faun ... Love stories!

Until her arrival in Singapore, she had never read a novel.
Pilgrim's Progress, The Life of Martin Luther and Alice in
Wonderland (the only fairy-story she had been permitted to read)
were the sum total of her library. But in the appendix of the
dictionary she had discovered magic names--Hugo, Dumas, Thackeray,
Hawthorne, Lytton. She had also discovered the names of Grimm and
Andersen; but at that time she had not been able to visualize "the
pale slender things with gossamer wings"--fairies. The world into
which she was so boldly venturing was going to be wonderful, but
never so wonderful as the world within these paper covers. Already
Cosette was her chosen friend. Daily contact with actual human
beings all the more inclined her toward the imaginative.

Joyous, she felt the need of physical expression; and her body
began to sway sinuously, to glide and turn and twist about the
room. As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden
tom-toms.

Eventually her movements carried her to the little stand at the
side of the bed. There lay upon this stand a book bound in limp
black leather--the Holy Bible.

Her glance, absorbing the gilt letters and their significance,
communicated to her poised body a species of paralysis. She stood
without motion and without strength. The books slid from her arms
and fluttered to the floor. Presently repellance grew under the
frozen mask of astonishment and dissipated it.

"No!" she cried. "No, no!"

With a gesture, fierce and intolerant, she seized the Bible and
thrust it out of sight, into the drawer. Then, her body still tense
with the atoms of anger, she sat down upon the edge of the bed and
rocked from side to side. But shortly this movement ceased. The
recollection of the forlorn and loveless years--stirred into
consciousness by the unexpected confrontation--bent her as the high
wind bends the water-reed.

"My father!" she whispered. "My own father!"

Queerly the room and its objects receded and vanished; and there
intervened a series of mental pictures that so long as she lived
would ever be recurring. She saw the moonlit waters, the black
shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the
bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of
the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away
from the sides--and the beating of her heart. The flight.

How she had fought h