She was pensive and thoughtful. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. It was time to disappear, no more Becks, no more Spaghetti Nights, no more afternoon kisses in the park with John Diedermayer. All the village was assembled in the churchyard. I am totally like this on my own. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured. By this time Capes’ hair had bleached nearly white, and his skin had become a skin of red copper shot with gold. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire.
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