The tropical dawn is swift. After all, they’re history in the making. Things hung for a moment in an awkward silence. ‘Pardon, milor’,’ said Valade, ‘but Monsieur Charvill, he was not at fault. So I come suppliant. Manning,” she said, “for a time—Will you tell no one? Will you keep this—our secret? I’m doubtful—Will you please not even tell my aunt?” “As you will,” he said. The fanatic has no such word in his vocabulary.
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