There was a trader—a man who bought copra and pearls. “You understand, then,” he was saying, “you understand?” “I understand,” said Ann Veronica, tear-wet and flushed with a reciprocal passion, but standing up to him with an equality that amazed even herself, “I understand. Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. She isn't used to cities. Pay fools with promises. The inner apartment was rather gracefully furnished with a thick, fine Turkish carpet, a good brass fender, a fine old bureau, and on the walls were engravings of two young girls’ heads by Greuze, and of some modern picture of boys bathing in a sunlit pool. He felt hands tugging at him, mysterious creatures with long fingers and sharp nails that pulled at his flesh.
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