Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. “Ask me nothing. His shirt also was unbuttoned, and disclosed a neck like that of an ox, and a chest which might have served as a model for a Hercules. Giving him a wide berth, and keeping her pistol high, she made her way to the door and warily peered through it. There will be long stretches of idleness, heat, and enervation; and always the odour of drying coconut.
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