She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. 'Sdeath! what can I have done with it? Oh! here it is," cried Hogarth, picking it from the ground. Your name. He was standing up with the telegram crumpled in his hand. It’s gone. There is the key. And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice.
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