She
forgot her vital hatred of the South Seas; she forgot that McClintock's would not
differ a jot from the old island she had for ever left behind her; she forgot all the
doctor's lessons and warnings. Yet her aunt, with a ringed hand flitting to
her lips and a puzzled, worried look in her eyes, deaf to all this riot of warmth
and flitting desire, was playing Patience—playing Patience, as if Dionysius and
her curate had died together. She
traced him by his scent. She held it away from her
with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of
strangers. They were headed by an athleticlooking, swarthy-featured man, who was armed with a cutlass, which he waved
over his head to cheer on his companions. Lucy wore it every day from then on. It was, in a way, something of a joke to the
doctor: psychology and physiognomy on an island which white folks did not
visit more than three or four times a year, only then when they had to.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDMuMTQ0LjE3Mi4yMTcgLSAwMS0wNy0yMDI0IDAyOjExOjI4IC0gMTQ4MDE3NDM5OA==
This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 30-06-2024 04:08:02