The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. She thought of leaving the Beck house less and less these days, though the suitcase remained packed underneath her creaky bed. “There have been other times,” he said a little sadly. Left to Capting Roding, as he told me hisself, you’d be in prison this moment. There was every indication that she fled the island in company with a dissolute rogue. The wall of the sky, the wall of the horizon, the wall behind which each human being hid—the wall behind which she herself was hiding! If only her mother had lived, her darling mother! Presently the unhappy puzzlement left her face; and an inward glow began to lighten it. He is not in a state of mind to bear it. She is, in her way, a dear.
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