They are our food, Lucia, nothing more. Then as she drew nearer paint showed upon her face, and a harsh purpose behind the quiet expression of her open countenance, and a sort of unreality in her splendor betrayed itself for which Ann Veronica could not recall the right word—a word, half understood, that lurked and hid in her mind, the word “meretricious. She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. Can't I make you understand? Perhaps it sounds cruel to you; but we women often have to be cruel defensively. I'll send you word when I catch him. And I’m afraid. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. . ’ ‘And you will not,’ came triumphantly from the cherry lips. Maggot, whose nerves were more firmly strung, she contented herself with waving her hand affectionately to her lover, and encouraging him by her gestures.
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