Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun. ‘I have told you that I am entirely English. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. I can't pump out all there is to these compositions. She would end this sham with Manning. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. Her hand came up and she laced her fingers with his.
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