Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. But that's an infirmity shared by a great many sounder heads than mine. Jack affected to close the door, but left it slightly ajar. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. ‘What in the world is that?’ demanded Miss Froxfield. Every so often a wall of water, thin and jadecoloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships.
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