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Somehow I thought of her still as the frightened girl in the yellow shift—caught up in games of war and intrigue beyond her comprehension and, to a great extent, mine. She was to be protected, sheltered, treated with kindness, reassured. I could not think of her in my arms—nor of her ignorant, timid lips on mine—for she was always and would remain only the unfortunate Elizabeth Cardwell, the innocent and unwitting victim of an inexplicable translocation and an unexpected, unjust reduction to shameful bondage. She was of Earth and knew not the flames which her words might have evoked in the breast of a Gorean warrior—nor did she understand herself truly nor the relation in which she, slave girl, stood to a free man to whom she had been for the hour given—I could not tell her that another warrior might at her very glance, have dragged her helpless to the darkness between the high wheels of the slave wagon itself. She was gentle, not understanding, naive, in her way foolish—a girl of Earth but not on Earth—not a woman of Gor female on her own barbaric world—she would always be of Earth—the bright, pretty girl with the stenographer's pad—like many girls of Earth, not men but not yet daring to be woman. "But," I admitted to her, giving her head a shake, "you are a pretty little barbarian". She looked into my eyes for a long moment and then suddenly dropped her head weeping. - (Nomads of Gor, Chapter )