They had asked her to come to the first of the two great annual Fadden Dances, the October one, and Ann Veronica had accepted with enthusiasm. In Singapore that had been her only dissipation: a dozen pairs of silk stockings. ‘Kill him? Oh. Something in his smile, in the cynical suggestiveness of his deferential tone, maddened her. Pole coolies came joggling along with bobbing blocks of jade—white jade, splashed and veined with translucent emerald green. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off.
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