‘What the devil for?’ ‘Messenger,’ Gerald explained. He drew an awed breath. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. McClintock's was a plantation of ten thousand palms, yielding him annually about half a million nuts. The old aspect of the place was gone. They simply understood there was a greater need to get over the past than to talk about it. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. I should think, Anna, that your own sense—er—of propriety would enable you to see this. Her head rose.
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