Its parents have perished. It was the girl. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. She addresses you as the Flower of the Lotus, as the Resplendent Moonbeam. How little he knew about Ruth—the background from which she had sprung! He knew that her father was a missioner, that her mother was dead, that she had been born on this island, and that, at the time of his collapse, she had been on the way to an aunt in the States. He was six blocks away from his home, a ten story building apparently made solely of glass. ‘And your schooling?’ he pursued.
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