She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. “Sir John is a man of the world,” her aunt answered coldly. ” He frowned heavily. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. Ruth shivered; she was cold.
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