She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. Wood, regarding her husband with a glance of vindictive triumph. “My child, I do not wish. . "Vat ish it, Mishter Vild?" inquired Mendez. There was a trader—a man who bought copra and pearls. No man knew whence she had come nor why. “What year was 221 that, about 1350?” He asked in wonderment. "Well, Lady Trafford," he said, fixing a severe look upon her.
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