'" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. He liked to draw her in, and she did her best to talk. ‘Yes, for there were too many females for the vicomte to make me a dowry. “Do you mean in looks?” she asked. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. He donned his winter coat. Well, I don't blame you on that ground. But one thing troubled him, and because of it he might never arrive on the beach. “You know,” he muttered, “you know quite well that your troubles are far more likely to weigh upon me than my own. Spurlock grew cold.
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