Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. 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. And all to satisfy a succession of rapacious lightskirts. "His wife is still living," returned Kneebone, drily. They travelled past the few idle sightseers who had braved the uninviting evening to see what the Suffragettes might be doing; they pulled up unchallenged within thirty yards of those coveted portals.
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