She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. . ’ He scratched his chin as if he thought about it, but covertly kept a careful study of what he could see of her face. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. 192 Her skirt had ridden almost to her hips. Danger, the most terrible she had ever faced, was substantially in this room. ” The ants seemed to salute in attention. Below was an uninspiring street, a thoroughfare of boarding-houses and apartments. “All right?” asked the man with the light eyelashes, suddenly appearing in the doorway. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. “You are beautiful, Lucy.
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