She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. He had been hard since they had taken their clothes off. “Dear old Daddy,” she said, “he’ll make a fearful fuss. Where was the harm in letting her go? She could not get far. And as he walked by her side they began a wrangle that was none the less pleasant to Ann Veronica because it served to banish a disagreeable preoccupation. His face was white.
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