It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. 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. The calvacade was now put slowly in motion. Her moods were many and always striking. “You love some one else?” he repeated. ‘I must.
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