Paris, always beautiful even in the darkness, glittered away to the horizon. ‘And your schooling?’ he pursued. She had not thought anything could equal her despair at that moment. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. CHAPTER XXXII. The one profession, the one decent profession, I mean, for a woman—except the stage— is teaching, and there we trample on one another. I'm ashamed to say that I was too much terrified to scream out—but ran and hid myself.
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