‘Come on. "You speak English better than I do," said O'Higgins, as the coolies jogged across the bridge toward the gate. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. It feels like too much gold-dust clutched in one’s hand.
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