A sob was strangled in her throat. . \"Just fine, John. They flash to and fro, they thrill us with expectancy. "So she got away as far as this, eh? But where does she come in?" The doctor recounted that side of the tale. 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. ’” “But that is flat rebellion!” said Mr. Spurlock was basically a poet, quick to recognize beauty, animate or inanimate, and to transcribe it in unuttered words. The trader you spoke about: he disliked your father, didn't he? Well, he probably played your father a horrible practical joke. So you, Jacques, must go and wait for me with the horse.
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