Bella'll clear the litter out of the spare bunk." Not till evening did he speak again, and then, "You're big enough to do your own cooking.

When the woman's done with the stove you can fire away." The woman, or Bella, was a comely Indian girl, young, and the prettiest St.Vincent had run across.

Instead of the customary greased swarthiness of the race, her skin was clear and of a light-bronze tone, and her features less harsh, more felicitously curved, than those common to the blood.
After supper, Borg, both elbows on table and huge misshapen hands supporting chin and jaws, sat puffing stinking Siwash tobacco and staring straight before him.

It would have seemed ruminative, the stare, had his eyes been softer or had he blinked; as it was, his face was set and trance-like.
"Have you been in the country long ?" St.Vincent asked, endeavoring to make conversation.
Borg turned his sullen-black eyes upon him, and seemed to look into him and through him and beyond him, and, still regarding him, to have forgotten all about him.

It was as though he pondered some great and weighty matter--probably his sins, the correspondent mused nervously, rolling himself a cigarette.