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. Stanley pronounced, and seemed to hesitate whether he had not gone too far. "You are all right?"—anxiously. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. Two souls in travail; one inspired by fresh hopes, the other, by fresh despairs. But what would her aunt think of Teddy’s recent off-hand suggestion of marriage? What would she think of the Widgett conversation? Suppose she was to tell her aunt quietly but firmly about the parasitic males of degraded crustacea. ’ The lady sighed and spread her hands.
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