Moored to the steps, several wherries were dancing in the rushing current, as if impatient of restraint. "You've hit it," answered Sheppard. I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. “Sir John!” Annabel gasped. Anna sprang to her feet with a startled cry. He wore a battered sunhelmet, a loin-cloth and a pair of dilapidated canvas shoes.
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