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The young man entered into a lively little war of words with a yellow-haired young person near the door. It fell to the ground and smoked ominously. She has no proof—yet. She might scream until her voice failed; the natives would not come to her aid; they never meddled with the affairs of the whites. What lends a tragic mockery to all these tender traps of hers was that she was within lawful bounds. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. Do you see why I have hidden the terrible things from you? I chose you because you are my perfect mate.
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