Even in her hatred, she began to realize that Sebastian’s intelligence was much greater than Gianfrancesco’s. Plote was sleeping or deaf. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. In the end, resolution triumphed, as it was sure to do, over the weaker emotions, and he laughed at his fears. Surely his calculated desire to sit near her meant that his attention had surely been brought from its normal diversions into her realm.
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