The distress they feel has not deprived them of their gaiety. They laugh, they sing, they join in the dance with the young girls of the neighbourhood, and seem to forget their cares in the prospect of having them speedily removed.
Hard not to think of Bowen's Anglo-Irish in her descriptions of the Creoles
She ordered one of her slaves to cut off the[Pg 19] head of the unfortunate victim, which was instantly done. At dinner her husband said he felt no disposition to eat, to which his wife, with the air of a demon, replied, perhaps I can give you something that will excite your appetite; it has at least had that effect before. She rose and drew from a closet the head of Coomba. The husband, shocked beyond expression, left the house and sailed immediately for France, in order never again to behold such a monster.
Who was the monster? Is Coomba's humanity part of the horror here? Is she only incidental to the wife's excess?
All this bustle would be delightful if it was not attended with such melancholy consequences. It keeps us from petrifying, of which I was in danger.
????
To paint these[Pg 5] heart-rending scenes of tenderness and woe, description has no powers. The imagination itself shrinks from the task.
A bit melodramatic.