I consider even now that the present colour is far less becoming. There’s that old gentleman at the end of the table—Bullding his name is. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. A hush descended across the audience as instruments tuned, creating small ladders of fifths that collapsed abruptly, snatches of solos that disappeared and reappeared like gags in a house of mirrors. Anna never knew whither it had led her— sometimes she had fears.
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