Advancing towards him, he made him a formal salutation, which was coldly returned. "Won't you take these?" For a space he merely stared at her, perhaps wondering if she were real. To be free of outward distraction, he shut his eyes and concentrated upon the scraps she had given him; and shortly, with his eyes still closed, he began to describe Ruth's island: the mountain at one end, with the ever-recurring scarves of mist drifting across the lava-scarred face; the jungle at the foot of it; the dazzling border of white sand; the sprawling store of the trader and the rotting wharf, sundrily patched with drift-wood; the native huts on the sandy floor of the palm groves; the scattered sandalwood and ebony; the screaming parakeets in the plantains; the fishing proas; the mission with its white washed walls and barren frontage; the lagoon, fringed with coco palms, now ruffled emerald, now placid sapphire. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. My friends consider it wonderfully faithful. Do have some tea, won’t you? If you must, go then. Turning now, and running down the terrace. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Still, something had marked the face, something had left an indelible touch.
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