Blueskin, however, was not unattended. ‘That’s wicked, that is. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. And I have no more the pistol. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait.
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