Daughters were not like sons. Here was one of those Americans who would make him breathless before sundown. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. From the Sha-mien to the yacht, Spurlock had uttered no word; though, even in the semi-darkness, no gesture or word of Ruth's escaped him. . ” He complained, handing it, case and all, to Lucy.
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