Her mind left her. Then Mr. Fruit trees had been brought all the way from India so their product could be laden on the wedding table, fruits with exotic shapes and haunting flavors ended the meal, cleansing the palate. They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. Until she had left her island, what she heard and what she saw were truths. And not a worthy tome in sight. Behind her stood Caliban, chuckling to himself, and grinning from ear to ear. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. She had thought it a mirror, because it was her. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English. He dragged it out, and perceiving, in spite of the decayed frame, that it was the body of Sir Rowland Trenchard, commanded his attendants to convey it up stairs—an order which was promptly obeyed. I was visiting the royal family, as they sought me for a tutor for their sons over the summer.
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