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One day we crawled up the narrow, rickety ladder that led into the two by four opening of old Wahpering's palm-shaded home. The little punghulo or chief, touched his forehead with the back of his open palm as we advanced cautiously over the open bamboo floor toward his old wife, who was seated in one corner by a low, horizontal window, weaving a sarong on a hand-loom.
Wahpering's wife was not dressed to receive us, for we had come swiftly up the dim lagoon, over which her home was built, and had landed on the sandy beach unannounced. The long, black hair would have been washed beautifully clean with the juice of limes, and twisted up as a crown on the top of her head. In it would have been stuck pins of the deep-red gold from Mt.
I am afraid that the great "Rajah and Ranee" lost some of their lately acquired dignity in accepting the invitation. Wahpering's bungalow, other than being larger and roomier than the ordinary bungalow, was exactly like all others in style and architecture. It was built close to the water's edge, on palm posts six feet above the ground.
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