She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. No matter what happened, whether the road smoothed out or became still rougher, he would always be carrying this secret with him; and each time he recalled it, the rack. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. He smiled. ’ ‘Get rid of the wench,’ Roding said brutally. There were one or two bitter moments in his life when he had been made to feel that gentility laid on with a brush may sometimes crack and show weak places—that deportment and breeding are after all things apart. ‘And you come to me, thinking yourself half French, and expect me to take you in. And she—’ ‘She!’ interrupted the young lady crossly.
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