“It was the night you left Paris. 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. " "There's some one in the garden at this moment," cried Jack; "I saw a face at the window. Wood, by whom it was formerly occupied. It is that, is it not?” “No,” he answered readily. After passing Tottenham Court Road, very few houses were to be seen on the right hand, opposite Wardour Street it was open country. ‘—without telling her why,’ he finished, ignoring the interjection. It is just the aim I have had in view all the time. Oriental rugs adorned the sea of shiny hardwood floors, kept polished with an eye for detail that bordered on Japanese. ‘You do not dare look in my clothes.
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