She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. Also, you must send someone to fetch my horse—at least, it is not mine but I have borrowed it to come here—because it will be dark very soon and—’ ‘Woof! Hold it, hold it,’ begged the sergeant. “I cannot but conclude,” he said, “that your errand involved the recital to my wife of some trouble in which you find yourself. She deserves what has befallen her. He never finished his sentence. It really isn’t so easy to go as it seems.
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