“You too sing?” he asked. "Then, of course, you must know. It was a face that matched her body, so pure and beautiful that any man would have killed for her. “MY DEAR VERONICA,—Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself in some arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball in London. ‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. ” “I wonder,” he said, a trifle irrelevantly, “what the future has in store for you. Then a ride to London on horseback. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky.
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