If he stayed in the basement apartment as was his usual habit, she would have no problem. In one hand she carried a long-stalked red rose, dripping with dew, in the other the post-bag. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him.
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