He looked at her, hurt. He sent me home. She is no longer mine; she is yours. "They have ever since been deposited in a place of safety. She felt a semi-sharp object being gently impressed into her back. Already he was dramatizing Ruth, involving her, now in some pearl thieving adventure, now in some impossible tale of a white goddess. She took Mr. . ‘Is that a gesture of friendship?’ She stamped her foot. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. As though it was indelicate—it’s just a sort of shyness. Why do you look so sad?” She opened her eyes wider and stifled her emotions. Still, his conscience was partly satisfied. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the rules is very easy.
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