She hated tricking Shari, whose joy for life was the only thing that made her naive enough to fall for laced iced tea or hot cocoa, depending on the season. 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. Her moods were many and always striking. Here he halted; and, looking upwards, read, at the foot of an immense sign-board, displaying a gaudily-painted angel with expanded pinions and an olive-branch, not the name he expected to find, but that of WILLIAM KNEEBONE, WOOLLENDRAPER. Returning to Mrs Sindlesham’s chair, he held up the miniature so the face depicted there was turned towards the old lady. "You don't recollect me, I presume?" premised the stranger, taking a seat. She winced as he thrust the fact at her, was about to answer, and checked herself.
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