"I have had Kanakas who could read and write in Dutch, and English, though. Daughters were not like sons. He was manifestly exerting his mind for her, and she found herself fully disposed to justify his interest. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. She seemed just as stiff and shy as a girl ought to be, Lady Palsworthy thought, neither garrulous nor unready, and free from nearly all the heavy aggressiveness, the overgrown, overblown quality, the egotism and want of consideration of the typical modern girl.
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