‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. “To the young man himself,” he answered, “no! I simply object to his calling here two or three times a week during my absence. But it was her proof. The heavy weapon thundered against the door; and it speedily yielded to their efforts. The boat rocked violently with the struggle. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. "But don't wait for me, Sir Cecil. .
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