The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. And then all her restlessness was turned to joy. 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. ‘Oh, dearie me, you make me feel a traitor. I have always hated it. ” Her passion conquered for a moment her fear.
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