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His eyes were bright, and his voice had in it an unaccustomed timbre. Even the horns were easing into the concept and the woodwinds in the second movement were particularly well-orchestrated. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. “Come right in,” he hissed under his breath, with the true conspirator’s note, closed the door very softly and pointed, “Through there!” By the meagre light of a gas lamp she perceived a cobbled yard with four large furniture vans standing with horses and lamps alight.
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