You’re never going to believe this, by the way. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. She felt smaller and more adventurous even than she had expected to feel. Gay. They were silent and no longer observant, being more or less exhausted by the tedious action of the chairs. ‘Who, the émigrés?’ ‘Do I speak of the English, imbecile? Certainly the émigrés. What’s the name of the happy man?” Gwen owned to “Fortescue. He felt like a boy again, the taste for adventures was keen upon his palate, the whole undiscovered world of rhythmical things, of love and poetry and passion seemed again to him a real and actual place, and he himself an adventurer upon the threshold.
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