CHAPTER XXIII Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the lagoon. Or mad, just as the captain had said so many times. The late afternoon, en effet. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white. She felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. “I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person.
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