Mrs. He could talk to her as frankly as he could to a man, that she would not take offence at anything so long as it was in the form of explanation. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. Her little white hand stole across the table. She could not move. They heard his footsteps descending the stone staircase, growing fainter and fainter. Operations then commenced. That was one of the mysterious qualities of this child of the lagoon: she had always at instant service that Oriental mask of impenetrable calm that no Occidental trick could dislodge.
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