“Miss Pellissier,” Brendon said gently, “I am afraid that some fresh trouble has come to you. In after years you can return to your own country—to your friends. ” She laughed softly to herself. We, ourselves, are scarcely the same we were twelve years ago. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting. She spoke readily enough, but there was a new timidity in her manner. My sinuses are so swollen up right now.
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