He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. “It may be true, but it isn’t quite what I have in mind. Pearls in the dawn light, flashing and burning! "You don't like your island?" "I hate it!… But, there!"—weariness edging in. ‘You’ve found her out?’ ‘Tell us at once,’ urged Miss Froxfield.
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