She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. Besides, he was a Yale man. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. “I think you are getting to understand me better. And the grotesquest fact was that she did not so much loathe, as experience with a quite critical condemnation this strange sensation of being kissed. An influence of this description appeared to be exerted on the present occasion.
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