His tone was kind and sympathetic. Supper was over. “I was in Paris four years ago,” Mr. Ennison,” she said. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance. “For I know that you love Ennison.
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