The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour forbidden any such supposition. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. “Are you sorry you waited, aunt?” she said. "All my life I've dreamed of something like this," he said, divertingly, with a gesture which included the yacht. They WERE, she realized, acutely beautiful things. What sort of proof? There are no papers at Remenham House.
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