“I don’t want children, Lucy. The joy that filled her veins with throbbing fire urged her to rise and go swinging and whirling and dipping. The bungalows and stores were built of heavy bamboo and gum-wood; sprawly, one-storied affairs; for the typhoon was no stranger in these waters. Already she knew that she was overstaying her welcome. On a pallet in one corner lay a pale emaciated female. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears.
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