Then he had gone away. Her eyebrows were lifted in expostulation. “Sir John is not at all that sort. I’m sorry. "No Mohocks! No Scourers!" cried the mob. Treasure caves to explore! All through these trying days she had recurrently wondered what this strange young man would have to say that Dickens and Hugo had not already said. You need only answer me truthfully and you have nothing to fear. Instead, they appeared to be at the hygienic level of tramps’ lodging-houses. That’s what I mean. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. But, whether she likes it or not, I aim to be on hand to get her out of it.
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