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. I don’t want you to be sad. "Gracious Heaven!—is she the inmate of a mad-house?" "She is, Sir," answered the woollen-draper, sadly, "driven there by her son's misconduct. In a side-glance—for the floor was variously encumbered with overturned objects—he saw one of his paper weights, a coloured glass ball such as McClintock used in trade. ’ Gerald eyed her. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated.
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