The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. His frowning gaze came back to her. He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. ‘I must see the lady who is my great-aunt. The tiles lay a foot thick in the road. “But was it wise to sing to-night?” “Why not? The man was nothing to me.
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