Prudence twinkled at them, and reached out to pat Melusine’s hand. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. He seized a tray, squatted on the floor, and imitated the tom-tom. I am not a madman, or a pauper, or even an unreasonable person. He hated the taste of it. It was empty.
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