Then, one night, he glanced up to behold Ruth and Rollo in the doorway. That was one of the mysterious qualities of this child of the lagoon: she had always at instant service that Oriental mask of impenetrable calm that no Occidental trick could dislodge. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape.
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