“My dad is into this stuff. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. The Malays have one, too, but it's a rank imitation, tom-toms and all. Oh, Heavens; that I should have ever indulged a hope of happiness while that terrible man lives!" "Compose yourself, Joan," said Wood; "all will yet be well. She felt he was going to say something more—something still more personal and intimate.
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