It grew clear to her that throughout all her wild raid for independence she had done nothing for anybody, and many people had done things for her. Most of the time, he was hunting and he returned at night. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. ‘I know you, Gerald. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. “Hey, John. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. ‘You do not dare look in my clothes. I won't have a beachcomber on the island.
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