The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. ” “I am afraid,” she murmured, “that it would be difficult. Wood heard the cry. That was one of the mysterious qualities of this child of the lagoon: she had always at instant service that Oriental mask of impenetrable calm that no Occidental trick could dislodge. I love some one else. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” It was as much an accusation as a question. Hear me then, now, before I take one step to establish my origin, or secure my rights.
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