From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels. The moisture from the sea was constant, and she spent countless hours staring at the sea from the west tower, the rise and fall of waves. People shrug their shoulders and call me a crazy socialist.
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