If ever I did meet a man I could love, I should love him”—her voice dropped again—“platonically. Rather! Who could help it?” He towered up over her and smiled down at her in his fatherly way. The drunken beachcombers; the one-sided education; the utter loneliness of a white child without playfellows, human or animal, without fairy stories, who for days was left alone while the father visited neighbouring islands, these pictures sank far below their actual importance. “Think of what people will say!” That became a refrain. He gently took the roses from her and laid them on the pillow. The boy doesn't know it, but I dug into his trunk for something to identify him and stumbled upon some manuscripts.
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