As she danced there was in her ears the faded echo of wooden tom-toms. The island had evidently grown round this lagoon, approached it gradually from the volcanic upheaval—an island of coral and lava. ‘Pray you, mademoiselle, can you not—’ ‘No use trying to enlist Lucilla’s aid,’ snapped Roding. It was so hopeless to put it to them. “It is too late for visitors,” she remarked.
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