In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. “Miserable bounder,” he murmured. It might have been the moon, or the phosphorescence of the broken water, or it might have been his abysmal loneliness; but suddenly he caught her face in his hands and kissed her on the mouth. "Vell, vell," growled Sharples, after he had listened to the other's remonstrances, "it shall be done.
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