One post-midnight meeting, she could stand it no longer. “It was perhaps my fault. Her defence ceased rapidly to be in any sense ladylike, and became vigorous and effective; a strand of black hair that had escaped its hairpins came athwart Ramage’s eyes, and then the knuckles of a small but very hardly clinched fist had thrust itself with extreme effectiveness and painfulness under his jawbone and ear. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. You can’t! I tell you frankly you may break off your engagement to me—I shall hold myself still engaged to you, yours just the same. "Then I am old-fashioned. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered.
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