Jane was a smoldering auburn-haired Irish beauty who seldom spoke to anyone. "What's that to you?" retorted Jack, surlily. This isn’t the place. " Here Ruth returned with the broth; and McClintock strode aft, convinced that he was going to have something far more interesting than books to read. Perhaps the boys had already faced off and he had missed it, he thought sourly. In a moment they were in the street outside. ” She demanded. We've never caught him cheating at cards; too clever; but we know he cheats. 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. I didn't think.
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