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The word "criticism" had no
concrete meaning to her then; no more than "compromise. The blades on the top spun faster and faster. She had a horrible glimpse of the once
nice little old lady being also borne stationward, still faintly battling and very
muddy—one lock of grayish hair straggling over her neck, her face scared,
white, but triumphant. I spent my fair share of time in
the closet. I shall quit this
roof to-morrow. ‘That will be a matter for her
future husband to decide. “She is an extremely attractive girl,” she said; and added, “to some people. And in this fact lay his danger. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's
sober; hands too shaky. 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. Wood. ‘—and what do I do? Well, we know what I do. ”
“But you,” she exclaimed, “you are not coming.
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This video was uploaded to golfrealestateonline.com on 17-07-2024 16:18:39