” “Do you mean,” Courtlaw asked, “that from now to the end of the six months you do not wish to see us—any of us?” Her eyes were a little dim again. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. Jackson, to the swig. He refused. Blackness was beginning to consume the cornfield.
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