The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. The hour for which, presumably, she had been created was drawing nigh. If I might take the liberty, Sir John,” he added, with a humorous gleam in his eyes, “I should like to congratulate you upon your tie. "What is a sing-song girl?" she asked. Ramage!” she cried, and struggled to her feet. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes. Spurling had retired for the night. She always left the table when they began to smoke. She became eager to explain herself, to show herself in the right light.
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