“There are a good many Whites in London. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her. Evidently he was gazing at the dull red roofs of the city: but was he registering what he saw? Never glance sideways at man, the old Kanaka woman had said. Slowly and reluctantly she came to realize that Vivie Warren was what is called an “ideal. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. Panic leapt into his eyes as he brought his wrist up just in time to parry the blade.
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