They stood for a moment in the passage and listened. The stores, the drying bins, McClintock's bungalows and the native huts sprawled around an exquisite landlocked lagoon. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. Something happened down there, and probably I'll never know what. Plain, wide-mouthed, freckled, and ugly, she was an instantly jealous creature, her saving grace that she took no pains to mask her extreme dislike 47 of petite, pretty girls. She went about in a negligent November London that had become very dark and foggy and greasy and forbidding indeed, and tried to find that modest but independent employment she had so rashly assumed. The Father did not know of course about her connection with the Valades. If you had lived twenty years ago you would have been called a Young Person, and it would have been your chief duty in life not to know, never to have heard of, and never to understand. I've a couple of kinchens in yonder rattler, whom I wish to place under old Sharples's care. To-morrow they will know the truth.
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