"My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. Shari draped herself lazily upon her unmade bed. The skipper, Van Galgebrok, affirmed to me,—nay, gave me the additional testimony of two of his crew,—that he was thrown overboard. She felt conscious of her nipples becoming visibly erect under the tight t-shirt and wished that she owned a thicker brassiere. She had fallen asleep. On gaining a stack of chimneys at the back of the house, he came to a pause, and again unmasked his lantern. He was accompanied by a young man of about seven-and-twenty, who carried his easel, set it in its place, laid the canvass upon it, opened the paint box, took out the brushes and palette, and, in short, paid him the most assiduous attention.
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