Such apartments as she saw were either scandalously dirty or unaccountably dear, or both. She rested for a half hour in heaven on earth, feeling herself drift in and out of sleep. One could enter and leave by proa, but nothing with a keel could cross the coral gate. "Nothing!" echoed the other, scornfully. Rather a hazardous spot for a convalescent, and McClintock had been doubtful at first; but Spurlock declared that he was a good sailor, which was true. Like the Valades, I imagine. She swallowed hard. And guess what? I don’t sleep much, if you haven’t noticed.
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