“Thanks, Mister McCloskey. Gosse had moved forward, his pistol arm out straight, his aim true, the gun cocked. Will you go? You'll be paid handsomely for your trouble. She thought of him as always courteous and helpful, as realizing, indeed, his ideal of protection and service, as chivalrously leaving her free to live her own life, rejoicing with an infinite generosity in every detail of her irresponsive being. "How would you like a job on a copra plantation?" he asked, irrelevantly to the thoughts crowding one another in his mind. She had a nut-brown skin, a swarthy upper lip, a merry black eye, a prominent bust, and a tun-like circumference of waist. The Victorians over-did it a little, I admit.
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