With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. “I hope,” said Miss Stanley, with dignity, and turned doorward with features in civil warfare. "I did see them on the platform of the bridge—the child and his preserver! They were not struck by the fallen ruin, nor whelmed in the roaring flood,—or, if they were, they escaped as I escaped. “Odd!” she said. She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. She battled with a deadly faintness, and she tottered rather than walked back to her seat. Pearls in the dawn light, flashing and burning! "You don't like your island?" "I hate it!… But, there!"—weariness edging in. “Don’t be too sure of that,” she answered enigmatically.
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