She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. Michelle laughed, saying that she could only guess. “He will find it difficult no doubt to alter his style of living,” she said. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly. But then—Oh! Madam, there are moments—moments of darkness, which overshadow a whole existence—in the lives of the poor houseless wretches who traverse the streets, when reason is well-nigh benighted; when the horrible promptings of despair can, alone, be listened to; and when vice itself assumes the aspect of virtue. Still it was possible, and the difficulty was only a fresh incitement. That, I think, is manifest. “Please not now. ” “He was probably right,” she declared.
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