Explore "The Island" by Richard Whiteing on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It was a woman -- so much I could make out, in spite of the distance, some three hundred yards as the crow flies, though more, of course, by the dip between the two hills -- a woman, by the rounded contours of the silhouette, and a tall one. Of her face, I could as yet say nothing: she was looking out to sea.
A woman, then, but of what tribe? There was no telling by the dress. She wore a petticoat of some dark material, reaching to the knee. It was but a dark patch, of course, as I saw it; and above it was the white one of another garment. At first, that was all I made out -- the patch of dark, the patch of white, with the half tint that stood for her bare limbs. She seemed to be shading her eyes with her hand, as she stood in the glare of light.