“Oh God!” she cried, “Oh God!” and flung aside her opera-cloak, and for a time walked about the room—a Corsair’s bride at a crisis of emotion. It’s that father of yours you take after, no question. "Miss Enschede—such an odd name!—are you French?" "Oh, no. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. Wood.
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