That was one of the mysterious qualities of this child of the lagoon: she had always at instant service that Oriental mask of impenetrable calm that no Occidental trick could dislodge. More importantly, she had her wits. One who—who—tres. You can scribble if you want to, but after you've given your eight hours daily to the mills. "Thank you," she said, and left the office. I am no one, Gérard. He's coming. I'll be feeling fine in no time.
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