” Part 9 She was sitting brooding over her fire about ten o’clock that night when a sealed and registered envelope was brought up to her. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. There was no one stirring in the flats. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her. “Why?” He inquired. But the morning brought courage again, and those first intimations of horror vanished completely from her mind. ” “Then why are you sorry that I am going to the ‘Unusual’? I do not understand. He seemed to be labouring under some great excitement. 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. It was a brief solitude, however. “Think of what people will say!” That became a refrain. Having now sealed his letter, Sheppard took a handkerchief, and tying it over Shotbolt's face, so as completely to conceal the features, clapped his hat upon his head, and pushed it over his brows. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation.
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