It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. ’ Jack gasped. It is Thérèse. "How would you like a job on a copra plantation?" he asked, irrelevantly to the thoughts crowding one another in his mind. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols.
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