Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. ‘How did you know that Mary was his daughter?’ Gerald hesitated. . ‘Very well, then. She had paid her bill, and she had enough left in her purse to pay many such. “I have a letter for you, and no end of messages. Earles, but it is a good one.
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