He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. And there was no intimation whatever that the blinds would ever go up or the windows or doors be opened, or the chandeliers, that seemed to promise such a blaze of fire, unveiled and furnished and lit. You mustn’t go clawing after a man that doesn’t belong to you—that isn’t even interested in you.
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