She watched her friend rise and go towards her affianced husband, a look of mischief in her face. Tell me what you think the island is like. Despair engulfed her at the horrid remembrance that the one particular Englishman she knew to be sympathique did not at all wish to marry her. Nothing to check their proceedings but a declining habit of telling the truth and the limitations of their imaginations. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. I awaken easily.
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