‘Parbleu, I hope that I do not have many more times to come in this way to the house,’ she muttered fretfully. She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. Yet even now there were so many things untouched, so much to be learned. She is no longer mine; she is yours. It amounted to two-and-twenty pounds. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. And I want you for myself—for my wife. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. He was a handsome man, and Lucy could see the strong resemblance of John to him. He kissed her once inside the car.
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