I have it about me. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. 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. Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside. I found it on the beach, just sitting there nestled inside a piece of driftwood. The man’s statement was explicit, and spoken with confidence.
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