There was a trader—a man who bought copra and pearls. Easy enough. They seemed the most wrapped things in all Ann Veronica’s wrappered world. “Dear friend,” she said, “do you not think that you are breaking an unspoken compact? I am very sorry. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. But for Ruth, he, Howard Spurlock, might have ended upon the beach, inescapably damned.
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