Some one was standing beside him. “Please stay,” she said briefly. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. “Come,” he said, “you can’t be meaning to bury yourself. She always managed to get back to the bungalow before he did. Wood, sharply. Through one doorway she saw a grave Chinaman standing on a stage-like platform. Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent.
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