‘Come, mademoiselle. There was a round table covered, not with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably with the wall-paper. "Tom! Hey, Tom!" The Chinese cook thrust his head into the dining room. Ruth and Spurlock separated, the one embarrassed, the other utterly dumfounded. The assemblage which was gathered together was almost countless. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. " And he looked at the moment as if he had lost all desire to know it. I deal with the Malay mostly; but twice a year I visit islands occupied by the true blacks, recently cured of their ancient taste for long-pig. Still, the respite was sufficient for Spurlock to look about for some weapon. He's here," returned the skipper, pointing significantly downwards.
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