Everything had so far come to pass as the withered old Kanaka woman had foretold. " "O Heavens!" screamed Winifred, while her father lifted up his hands in silent horror. Predictably, Charvill turned on him. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. He liked to draw her in, and she did her best to talk. He paused at the bamboo curtain of her room, which was in semi-darkness.
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