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He completed his chores and went thoughtfully back up the flower-edged path to the house. "There's one good thing about Mary's crossness," he reflected, "it don't last long. She'll be her old cheerful self ag'in by now." Billy promptly scented a new danger to his plans. "If I was you I wouldn't do that, Anse," he advised. "Then, sir, our policy will be to thrash on for Rio.".
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Conrad
Silence fell between them. He knew that she was thinking that last year on the opening morning of the duck season Frank Stanhope had sat at this table with him. She was gazing from the window, far down to where the Point was lost in the Settlement forests. He saw her bosom rise and fall, saw a tear grow up in her eyes and roll unheeded down her cheek. "Never saw finer lines than her's," agreed Landon. "You're sure you don't mind gettin' that word to Swanson now, Billy?" She was a little brig, and an immense but ragged British ensign fluttered at her trysail gaff-end. She had been painted black, but the fret of an ocean long kept, the hurl and whirl of prodigious seas which were like to founder her, the blistering heat of tropic suns,[Pg 352] the viewless fangs of the wind had so worn her sides that she was mottled with patches of different colour as though she was suffering from some distemper which ravaged vessels of her sort when the voyage was of great length. She rolled wearily, as though her old bones were worn out, and every time she hove her bilge to the eye she disclosed a very landed estate of weed, long, serpentine, trailing, like the huge eel-like growths which sway from black rocks in the white wash of breakers. Billy stood frowning. "Say, maybe Jacobs is the feller that fires the boilers that runs the windlass," he hazarded..
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