But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. This fall saved him, for the horsemen passed over him. She slept in a bedroom clad in linens and skins, walked down hallways bedecked in the most gay and colorful frescos. 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. “Home, of course,” she answered. His advice was mostly practical. One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square.
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