“I may as well come up by this train. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. “What do you mean?” she asked. She hated tricking Shari, whose joy for life was the only thing that made her naive enough to fall for laced iced tea or hot cocoa, depending on the season. Taber returning. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine.
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