In her ears there was a medley of sound: wailing music, rumbling tom-toms and sputtering firecrackers. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. I have calculated my chances, you perceive. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. But at last this ordeal was over, and Ramage opened the door. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness.
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