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“She”, you say. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. He had offered to escort the young lady to England where she might seek refuge with her relations there, and proposed that the maid Yolande might serve Miss Charvill. " "I forgot to mention there's a trifling reward for his capture," cried Shotbolt, popping his head from under the cloth. It is absolutely a frightful neighbourhood, this. Every so often a wall of water, thin and jadecoloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships. Take it, if I die. It's too hard.
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