" "How?" "Listen to me, Thames. "If you don't decide quickly, I'll scream," cried Mrs. 8. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood. “It is too late for visitors,” she remarked. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. ‘To read and write, of course, and to sew.
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