“In two days,” she reflected, “Mrs. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. You know they say, as, indeed, I have just quoted already, that all bad poetry is written in a state of emotion, but I have no doubt that this is true of bad offers of marriage. I never forgive an injury. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. He had changed her life dramatically, and she had missed him dreadfully.
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