Miss Ellicot, who sang ballads, and liked Brendon to turn over the pages for her, tossed her head. The old aspect of the place was gone. Pearls in the dawn light, flashing and burning! "You don't like your island?" "I hate it!… But, there!"—weariness edging in. She became aware of the modelling of his ear, of the muscles of his neck and the textures of the hair that came off his brow, the soft minute curve of eyelid that she could just see beyond his brow; she perceived all these familiar objects as though they were acutely beautiful things. Some day I'm going to paint her; but that will be when I've retired. ‘Why did you bring him? I hate him.
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