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3. “Good God!” he exclaimed. She laughed a little contemptuously. For a while they stood there, silent, motionless, staring at the doorway where still a few strings of the bamboo curtain swayed and twisted, agitated by the Wastrel's passage. You see—I didn’t understand. "Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. They had been so considerate of the earth they had touched that they barely left a footprint. Anna glanced into her sister’s face, and rose to her feet. And Rollo, who had been waiting for some encouraging sound, presented himself at the doorway. It was Blueskin. She held it by the neck and broke the end of the bottle on the hard dirt. Only an undermaid I was then.
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