At Christmas he gave her a set of a small edition of Meredith’s novels, very prettily bound in flexible leather, being guided in the choice of an author, as he intimated, rather by her preferences than his own. She forced herself not to think of John. Goopes when at home dressed simply in a pajama-shaped suit of canvas sacking tied with brown ribbons, while his wife wore a purple djibbah with a richly embroidered yoke. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss. Twice she smiled, but not unkindly. Guiltily, she felt very little for him, and yet she wondered what he would be like. ‘And I do not know why you are so polite, when you have been bad to me last night, and have taken my dagger. He kept at it even on those nights when the monsoon began to break with heavy storms and he had to weight down with stones everything on his table.
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