The fire still burned brightly. ” “Your priestess,” whispered Ann Veronica, softly. “So, Rhea must have known you for what you are. Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. But I've an old friend on the way here, and he knows the game down there. Tell him about the island, the coconut dance, the wooden tom-toms; read to him. A quarter of an hour passed. . .
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