Then, mysteriously, he no longer smelled or tasted it. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. Bulging out more in the middle than at the two extremities, it resembled an enormous cask set on its end, —a sort of Heidelberg tun on a large scale,—and this resemblance was increased by the small circular aperture—it hardly deserved to be called a door—pierced, like the bung-hole of a barrell, through the side of the structure, at some distance from the ground, and approached by a flight of wooden steps. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. He kissed her once inside the car. Mr Jarvis’s sister, that was. He had informed her that to leave him would be a choice to live a life of meager subsistence. . She munched her bland Whopper as he wolfed three in a row, stuffing his mouth with half a dozen French fries at a time. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream.
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