‘Get out! Out, I say! Think I want another miserable cowardly good-for-nothing wastrel on my hands? Begone! Out of my house!’ He drove them to the door, grimly satisfied when the girl’s nerve broke. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. McClintock laughed as he gave the letter to Ruth. She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. ‘You had better kill me, mademoiselle, because otherwise I shall end by strangling you.
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