Only it was with a further and most unbelieving shrug of the shoulders that he resumed his seat. 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 procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. ‘Would it so? What sort of a girl is she, then?’ ‘She’s a consummate devil,’ Gerald declared roundly. This was good.
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