It was, in a way, something of a joke to the doctor: psychology and physiognomy on an island which white folks did not visit more than three or four times a year, only then when they had to. "Well, what sort of journey have you had, Quilt?" asked the man as he hastened to assist Sir Rowland to dismount. “You can’t imagine,” Sydney exclaimed, “that the people downstairs will be such drivelling asses as to believe piffle like that. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome.
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