In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. “What’s the objection?” “I suppose she ought to know?” said Gwen to her mother, trying to alter the key of the conversation. Little more’n a week. He did not even reply to her for several minutes. She could see that he was curious, so she sat upon him and they rocked back and forth.
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