She heard his voice screaming her name into the twilight as she fled, his cries trailing like banners, weaving through the breeze that had begun to gently stir the dew on the ground. "The natives have foolish ways of saying things. They are not your flowers. ‘I have an excellent excuse to remain comfortably ensconced in my parlour here, able to indulge in my favourite pastime. Before midnight, your nephew shall be safe beneath the hatches of the Zeeslang. ‘I’ve never found a woman who did not drive me into a frenzy of boredom. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. Your uncle—our uncle is with him.
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