Wood became sensible that he was not alone. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. Wood, meanwhile, had summoned his men-servants, and having armed them with such weapons as could be found, they proceeded to the garden, where the first object they encountered was Thames Darrell, extended on the ground, and weltering in his blood. Returning to Mrs Sindlesham’s chair, he held up the miniature so the face depicted there was turned towards the old lady. She shook her head, almost breaking a smile.
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