She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. Across that world was written in letters of light, “Endowment of Motherhood. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. There was a pause, while the steel grey eyes sliced at her. It fell with a clatter to the floor. Farewell. \"What's that?\" Lucy asked. ‘You have rifled his papers.
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