She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. 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. Stanley. ’ ‘When you begin to tell the truth,’ Gerald told her severely, ‘I shall be happy to believe you.
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