Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. The signs of tears had all gone, but some subtle change seemed to have stolen into her face.
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