CHAPTER XI. This island was the one haven he had; he might be forced to remain here for several years—until the Hand had forgotten him. Why had she married him, off-hand, like that? She did not love him, or he knew nothing of love signs. The blinds were all drawn, the sunlight kept out, one could not tell what colors these gray swathings hid. One gets drawn into things. I see now that you make a game with me indeed. It was painted in the early seventeenth century by a minor artist named DuPre.
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