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. His client’s story is safe with him. Jack Sheppard is to me what Thames Darrell is to you—an object of hatred. ‘I can see why you lost your place, young Kimble. “We mustn’t have any unpleasantness, and Mr. Should be home soon. He spoke in quick nervous sentences. The mortal youth in him, then, was fascinated, the thinker, the poet; from all sides Ruth attacked him, innocently. They are born idiots, incurably insane. “Take off your tunic. "Is it you?" "It is," replied Sheppard, as he untied the cords. You’ll end up dead, that’s what. “Am I hurting you?” She asked. ’ ‘Oh, a ruin,’ exclaimed Mrs Sindlesham, throwing up a hand. I have pleaded with her—no wonder that I have pleaded with her in vain.
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