The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. “My word holds,” she said. Just as he was preparing to follow, the wherry containing Rowland and his men, which had drifted in their wake, was dashed against his boat. “Oh, there’s no doubt of it! Since the girls of the eighties broke bounds and sailed away on bicycles—my young days go back to the very beginnings of that —it’s been one triumphant relaxation. Better come another morning. She did not hear his approach, but continued her occupation without raising her head. The two lovers sat together, and their sole discourse turned upon Jack and his ill-fated mother.
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