His five o’clock shadow was bristly against her fingers. ‘You give me an excellent excuse to have in the Madeira,’ said his hostess, reaching for a silver hand bell and setting it pealing. Her name, he said, was as pretty as its wearer. Everything goes—the copra for oil, the fibre of the husk for rope, and the shell for carbon. There was scant social life on the Sha-mien aside from masculine foregatherings, little that interested him. She was unusually pale, and her eyes were brilliant.
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