It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed. Melusine’s heart ached for him, but she had to force him on. No, no! Not now!" Ruth turned abruptly and walked toward the bungalow, mounted the veranda steps, and vanished within.
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