hunter of butterflies
She stumbles into the garden as if she'd fallen from somewhere else, and scrambles quickly to her feet, her hair wild around her, a butterfly net clutched in one hand. Then she stops and looks at the garden, her dark eyes cautious.
She takes it in as though she expected it: a temperate European estate in the middle of the jungle, where she should have expected to find nothing except old ruins and tangles of thick trees and vines, and, of course, Mr. Stein's butterflies. Here, with nothing to threaten her that she can't overcome herself, Tamb' Itam has failed to accompany her, so she's alone.
Not a white woman, despite her dress, which is very old-fashioned, and German--something belonging to Mr. Stein's late wife. Not a white woman, with her brown skin and accented features. It all looks so incongruous, with her bare feet, long, loose hair, and the tattered net, empty, hanging, her livelihood these days.
Jewel is from Joseph Conrad's wonderful novel Lord Jim, and she has HAD ENOUGH.
She takes it in as though she expected it: a temperate European estate in the middle of the jungle, where she should have expected to find nothing except old ruins and tangles of thick trees and vines, and, of course, Mr. Stein's butterflies. Here, with nothing to threaten her that she can't overcome herself, Tamb' Itam has failed to accompany her, so she's alone.
Not a white woman, despite her dress, which is very old-fashioned, and German--something belonging to Mr. Stein's late wife. Not a white woman, with her brown skin and accented features. It all looks so incongruous, with her bare feet, long, loose hair, and the tattered net, empty, hanging, her livelihood these days.
Jewel is from Joseph Conrad's wonderful novel Lord Jim, and she has HAD ENOUGH.