That was one of the mysterious qualities of this child of the lagoon: she had always at instant service that Oriental mask of impenetrable calm that no Occidental trick could dislodge. It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. ‘Gérard will think that I have gone back to London. "I suppose I was mistaken," returned Gay. ‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew. What a mercy that the blow aimed at her by the ruffian, Wild, though it brought her to the brink of the grave, should have restored her to reason! Ah! she stirs. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping. She ignored it until it repeated itself.
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