‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. On the stranger's appearance, she was seated near the window busily occupied with her needle. “You know I’m old-fashioned, Miss Stanley. Things happen to women—proper women—and all they have to do is to take them well. I think he got sick of us and he disappeared not one week later.
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