"I think the natives saw you coming out of the lagoon, one dawn. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. Like the Valades, I imagine. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. Her father’s ideas of expostulation were a little harsh and forcible, and over the claret-colored table-cloth and under the gas chandelier, with his hat and umbrella between them like the mace in Parliament, he and his daughter contrived to have a violent quarrel.
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