But Melusine’s own words had thrown an idea into her head. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. Imbecile. The roof was partially untiled; the chimneys were tottering; the side-walls bulged, and were supported by a piece of timber propped against the opposite house; the glass in most of the windows was broken, and its place supplied with paper; while, in some cases, the very frames of the windows had been destroyed, and the apertures were left free to the airs of heaven. A brief calm succeeded. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky.
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