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Mystic Isles of the South Seas. by Frederick O'Brien
page 219 of 521 (42%)
"It were better to go directly up the valley and out of the heat,"
she advised. "We shall have many pools to bathe in."

It was at the next that I took from my pocket "Rarahu, ou le mariage
de Loti," a thin, poorly printed book in pink paper covers that I had
possessed since boyhood, and which I had read again on the ship coming
to Tahiti. The princess, like all reading Tahiti, knew it better than
I, for it was the first novel in French with its scenes in that island,
and for more than forty years had been talked about there.

"Here at this pool," she said, with her finger on the page, "Loti
surprised Rarahu one afternoon when for a red ribbon she let an old
and hideous Chinese kiss her naked shoulder. Mon dieu! That French
naval officer made a bruit about a poor little Tahitian girl! We will
talk about her when we are at déjeuner."

Déjeuner! My heart leaped. Whence would the luncheon come? Had this
child of Tahiti arranged beforehand that she should be met by a jinn
with sandwiches and cakes? I dared not ask.

We pushed on, and passed many residences of natives. They were almost
all of European construction, board cottages, because the houses of
native sort are forbidden within the municipal limits. Beyond them we
saw no houses. The Tahitian families were cooking their breakfasts,
brought from the market, on little fires outside their houses. They
all smiled, and called to us to partake with them.

"Ia ora na! Haere mai amu!"

"Greeting! Come eat with us!"
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