Her finger-nails dug into her flesh. Michelle stopped by the Beck’s after school that day. Gina, the eleven year old, just couldn’t take it and she ran away. As she talked she made weak little gestures with her hands, and she thrust her face forward from her bent shoulders; and she peered sometimes at Ann Veronica and sometimes at a photograph of the Axenstrasse, near Fluelen, that hung upon the wall. It was, in a way, something of a joke to the doctor: psychology and physiognomy on an island which white folks did not visit more than three or four times a year, only then when they had to. He gripped the window-sill behind him. It was like pouring a strong acid over dulled metal. The one through which she had come and Gosse had entered behind her.
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