He was a little embarrassed. His subconscious sensed the unnaturalness of it and recoiled. ‘Dolt! Muttonheaded oaf! Why the deuce couldn’t he have sent you home?’ Valade cut in at that. She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. Meysey Hill—never your wife. Tell me about your island. It was still too dark for reading, but she could see well enough to note the number of the last page—fifty-six. .
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