It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Marina had retired to bed, drinking wine slowly, sleeping when she was not drinking. "You know not what you do. If I offered you half of my possessions, you'd doubtless wallop me on the jaw. " "That sounds funny … to play it with your feet!" McClintock laughed. .
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