She felt his crotch through his jeans. What had shifted his casual interest was the visible prospect of a party of three who were coming down the packet gangplank. “I wish they did,” he said, “but they don’t. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. ” She rose up. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come.
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