Even now, during the recurring doubts of the future, the thought of the island was repellent.

She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky.

But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face.

It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow.
"The poor young man!" she said.
The doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could not tell how or why.

He dared not go on.