The baby did not strike at Sebastian. Ruth obeyed, not willingly, but because there was something hypnotic in the authoritative tone. Mom, this is Lucy Albert from school. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. Lights gleamed from the lower rooms, and, on a nearer approach to the building, the sound of revelry might be heard from within. A few random students gawked at them in the hall. He played for an hour—Grieg, Chopin, Rubenstein, Liszt, crashing music. This structure at once satisfied him as to where he stood. 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. Why should she? she asked rebelliously. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave.
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