She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. She was very pale, and there was a look of fear in her eyes. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. Jack looked towards the door. Earles asked sharply. Perhaps it was loneliness.
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