Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent. When she awoke she felt as if she were adrift on a soft cloud through a golden sky. There is no future for me here. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. Each morning his inquiry was properly answered: the patient was steadily improving, but none could say when he would be strong enough to proceed upon his journey. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky.
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