The flush deck was without wells. “I will put the question,” Drummond said gravely. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. It was among artistic people.
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