|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmefz

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self a strong objection to
having my throat cut by those gorgeous barbarians after a lot of
fatuous talk. Don't ask me why, Mrs. Travers. Put it down to an
absurd weakness."
Mrs. Travers made a slight movement in her chair, raising her
hands to her head, and in the dim light of the lanterns d'Alcacer
saw the mass of her clear gleaming hair fall down and spread
itself over her shoulders. She seized half of it in her hands
which looked very white, and with her head inclined a little on
one side she began to make a plait.
"You are terrifying," he said after watching the movement of her
fingers for a while.
"Yes . . ?" she accentuated interrogatively.
"You have the awfulness of the predestined. You, too, are the
prey of dreams."
"Not of the Moors, then," she uttered, calmly, beginning the
other plait. D'Alcacer followed the operation to the end. Close
against her, her diaphanous shadow on the muslin reproduced her
slightest movements. D'Alcacer turned his eyes away.
"No! No barbarian shall touch you. Because if it comes to that I
believe HE would be capable of killing you himself."
A minute elapsed before he stole a glance in her direction. She
was leaning back again, her hands had fallen on her lap and her
head with a yilai：
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|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmfcg