She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. For every Eden, there will be a serpent; for every sheepfold, there will be a wolf. I must go to work again. ‘Woof!’ uttered Trodger, gazing at the lady in some awe. ‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. Too late.
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