Men do not understand constancy as women do. As he lay on his back, he fancied himself gradually slipping off the platform. The stores, the drying bins, McClintock's bungalows and the native huts sprawled around an exquisite landlocked lagoon. “The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he remarked. And his scarlet coat had nothing to do with it, as Hilary was fond of recounting, for he had been in civilian clothes when they met, as he was tonight. I hate what I am.
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