’ About to hurry from the little parlour, Melusine remembered Mrs Ibstock. The coconut plantation covered the west side. Concealed among the trees that edged the estate grounds, the watchers paused. The recollection of all her unhappiness, the loveless years, the unending loneliness, the injustice of it, rolled up to her lips in verbal lava. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice.
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