Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. I was happy to oblige them, I had grown sick of the heat of the south and all the miserable sun. ” “That’s rather a fine sort of holiday!” He made no answer for three or four seconds. In a little while he and she were talking quite easily and agreeably. By a tacit agreement they ignored the significant thing between them, ignored the slipping away of the ground on which they had stood together hitherto. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. " "None whatever," rejoined Wild. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point. Just what in the world was that about? Before he could hazard a guess, Lucy looked back at him.
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