Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. "But what does he mean by calling you a wanton? —you, my wife?" Enschede's hand slipped from his daughter's shoulder. "Ha! say you so? You must be looked to. He seized a tray, squatted on the floor, and imitated the tom-tom. The spinsters were not kind; they were only curious because she was odd and wore a dress thirty years out of date.
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