"A sail?" said McClintock. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. " "Vy don't you talk to your partner, or Saint Giles, if you vant conversation, Aaron?" asked Jack, slyly. She could even think of what had happened. She was nestled under his bedspread. He slid out of her. Jack, meanwhile, heard, the shouts, and, though alarmed by them, held on a steady course. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat.
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