“You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. He found the door ajar, and, to his surprise, perceived little Winifred seated at a table, busily engaged in tracing some design upon a sheet of paper. ’ She struggled. Woman's love of silk is not set by fashion; it is bred in the bone; and somewhere, somehow, a woman will have her bit of silk. Immediately he grasped the fact that there was drama here, probably the old drama of the fugitive. My eyes are open to you. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. It did not occur to her that save for some accidents of education and character they had souls like her own. The stores, the drying bins, McClintock's bungalows and the native huts sprawled around an exquisite landlocked lagoon. "Beat down their blades," cried the Master; "no bloodshed.
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