He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. Rain pounded the tin roof, and waterfalls obscured the pavilion into its own private 91 chamber. “Forgive me,” he said. ” True summer descended like a sticky fever upon August’s arrival, bringing with it miasmas of humidity that seemed to hang from the trees like mucus. Morgan the trader did not haggle over the pearls, but gave me at once what he judged a fair price. I’ll get in trouble.
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