She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. This he accomplished by holding the chain that connected them firmly between his teeth, and squeezing his fingers as closely together as possible, succeeded in drawing his wrists through the manacles. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. First-off, he had decided not to tell her what he had found at the bottom of that manila envelope.
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