E. There was nothing in his manner to suggest the misery of the preceding night. He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. A traffic of copious barges slumbered over the face of the river-barges either altogether stagnant or dreaming along in the wake of fussy tugs; and above circled, urbanely voracious, the London seagulls. “Well,” she admitted.
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