John’s demeanor shifted. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. After quarter of an hour, she followed. And instead of accepting the situation gratefully, he felt vaguely hurt! One evening in September a proa rasped in upon the beach. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. “None, I thank you,” he answered.
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