Certainly, we—that is Jarvis and I— knew nothing of it until after Mary’s death. The bungalows and stores were built of heavy bamboo and gum-wood; sprawly, one-storied affairs; for the typhoon was no stranger in these waters. Paul’s, were rich and wonderful with the soft sunshine of London, the softest, the finest grained, the most penetrating and least emphatic sunshine in the world. She did not learn the kind of looks she had been bestowing upon him at a convent. The real Ruth was as completely hidden as though she stood behind the walls of Agra Fort.
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