She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. “What is the good of talking?” said her brother. Wood wound it up by a description of the drenching he had undergone at the Mint pump, the other could hold out no longer, but, leaning back in his chair, gave free scope to his merriment. It was a gorgeous May evening, the air redolent with the soapy purple scents of hyacinth and lilac.
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