“See you to-night, I suppose?” He sauntered off. “I wonder which of us is right,” she said. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. All I had to do was to piece them together. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action.
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