She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. ‘Quickly! You must get up. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. There was something very wrong.
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