emotion, all these were hers only through a mental understanding. With Olive these qualities were instinctive; also with Howard; even with Hester, to some extent; Adora throbbed with this passionate instinct—that was the real reason Mary's heart went out to her. Why, Mary asked herself, is this denied to me?
We are all savages, she repeated to herself, all, apparently, but me! She recalled what she had once been told—and her reason informed her that it was probably the truth—that Negroes never premeditate murder; their murders are committed under the reign of passion. If one made a temporary escape from a man bent on killing, it was likely to prove a permanent escape. The next morning, in another mood, probably he would have forgotten his purpose. There never had been, her informant assured her, a Negro poisoner. Negroes use the instruments that deal death swiftly: knives, razors, revolvers.
If she could only let herself go, revel in colour and noise and rhythm and physical emotion, throw herself into the ring with the others, figuratively shouting and hurling their assegais! But it would not be me, she argued with herself. Unless I acted naturally like the others, it would be no use. I must be myself. Perhaps, later, this instinct will come, awaken belatedly in me.
Preparations for Olive's wedding were progressing rapidly. Olive, as expert with the needle as
