As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. I do like to see old friends back here. They seem to spend their time yawning and inspecting their neighbour’s dresses through those hateful glasses. There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. You were never married at all. Water poured into her eyes, nose, and mouth in a torrent from which she had to turn and wheeze. Afterward she wanted to get her letter to her father back in order to read it over again, and, if it tallied with her general impression of it, re-write it. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone.
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