The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. Both the janizary and the skipper arose as the others entered the room. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. She backed away, amazed as the thing buzzed loudly in the center of the room. Arrived at the audience-chamber, he set down the light upon a stand, threw open the door, and announced in a loud voice, but with the perfect intonation of the person he represented,—"Sir Rowland Trenchard. She peered into the darkness. He felt her observance and warmed to it.
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