“You have succeeded a little too well in your personation,” she said bitterly, “to get rid very easily of Mr. “NO!” she said, at last, with something in her voice that reminded Ann Veronica of a sprung tennis-racket. The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. Pearls in the dawn light, flashing and burning! "You don't like your island?" "I hate it!… But, there!"—weariness edging in. His face, as he looked down where his hand sought for a weapon concealed in her petticoat, was so close that she could see only the line of his firm jaw, the drag of his powdered hair that drew it into the military pigtail, and the black ribbon that adorned it.
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