” “It’s an unrest—a longing—What’s that?” The waiter had intervened. " "You, Miss Enschede?"—frankly astonished that one stranger should offer succour to another. For a space he rode the whirligig. The bliss had lasted one hundred and forty years, far more than an entire mortal lifetime. The boat's sure to run foul o' the bridge; and if she 'scapes stavin' above, she'll be swamped to a sartainty below. Put out your hand and bid me God-speed. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. His grip twisted her wrist. " "Of course—of course," returned Wood, hastily; "anything's better than that.
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