I struck him across the face, twisted the steering wheel of the motor, sprang out myself, and left him for dead on the road with the motor on top of him. Then she went below. How long he sat there, reeling off this drivel, he never knew. I can’t explain—” They regarded one another, each blinded to the other. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. ‘Then it must certainly be Eugénie.
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