“You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. The stairs were outside but they had been covered with a thin plastic roof. “An uncle in New York is dead, and has left him loads of money. 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.
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