Her natural instincts reasserted themselves. All at once he recollected the fact that McClintock's copra plantation was down that way, somewhere in the South Seas; had an island of his own. She had a bittersweet fragrance, like dusty books and honeysuckle. Nevertheless it was overwhelming. “Delusion!” “You can call it what you like,” she said. Epithalamy might do. Pipes were lighted; and Mr. " "Perhaps that was it. Will you read to me? I am tired; and the sound of your voice makes me drowsy.
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