He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him. His deduction was correct that the beauty of Ruth Enschede could not remain hidden long even on a forgotten isle. It hung from the centre of a stout pole, each end of which rested upon the calloused shoulder of a coolie; an ordinary Occidental chair with a foot-rest.
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