He was standing up with the telegram crumpled in his hand. Sharples received them at the threshold, and holding his lantern towards the prisoners to acquaint himself with their features, nodded to Quilt, between whom and himself some secret understanding seemed to subsist, and then closed and barred the door. That was one of the mysterious qualities of this child of the lagoon: she had always at instant service that Oriental mask of impenetrable calm that no Occidental trick could dislodge. "And so I want the boy out of the way," he concluded. Michelle’s eyes widened. How I wish I might meet this delightful mystery lady of yours.
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