Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. ” She said through a closed mouth. The island was snake-free. He moved, after quiet intervals, with a quick little movement, and ever and again stroked his small mustache and coughed a selfconscious cough. 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. But one day he came to me. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. Now he thought she was so foolish that she knew only one stroke. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips.
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