A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. I’m anxious, joyfully anxious, like a man when he has found a treasure. Once she stopped in front of a mirror and looked at herself thoughtfully. Tears flowed in rivulets down 121 her cheeks and she began to cry. She dropped beside the chair, sat cross-legged, and laughed at the futile jade-coloured wall. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me.
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