“A girl needs her mother most exactly when she thinks she doesn’t. Mademoiselle has had no harm of me,’ Gerald said soothingly and bowed. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. In Europe or in America people would have smiled; but in Singapore—the half-way port of the world—where a human kaleidoscope tumbles continuously east and west, no one had remarked her. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. We have lived under the same roof, but our ways seem to have lain wide apart.
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