"'Cos there's a gale a-getting up as'll perwent you, young freshwater," replied the tar. He had plugged along, if not happy, at least with sound philosophy. “Ruin me? For what? Posterity? How could you ruin me, Lucy? What on earth are you talking about?” He got up and began to pace the room. “Come in here a moment, will you, Blanche,” he said. " "Nothing," echoed Wood furiously. “It is from his brother in Paris. .
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