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He took a handful of almonds and raisins that she held out to him—for both these young people had given up the practice of going out for luncheon—and kept her hand for a moment to kiss her finger-tips. “The one who used to live at Lyndmore. I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me. ‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. ‘You do not understand, Gérard.
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