I had a hunch. He was not Meysey Hill, but an Englishman of business, and he had only a small income. The three young men exchanged expressive glances. You think you will. Not then. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. There is a musical programme, and we have the windows open and blinds up, and a pink lamp shade over the piano lamp—a sort of advertisement of the place, you know. He glanced at his watch. To walk beside him, dressed akin to him, rucksacked and companionable, was bliss in itself; each step she took was like stepping once more across the threshold of heaven. “What have you done to yourself?” he muttered.
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