“She’s my wife,” the man muttered. He tried not to think—of Ruth with her mother's locket, of her misguided father, taking his lonely way to sea. Lovecraft and Edgar Allan Poe. It never is. Already she had sent him twenty pounds, and never written to explain to him why it was she had not sent it back sharply directly he returned it. Raising the bowl in his right hand, Jack glanced towards the balcony, in which the group of ladies were seated, and begged to drink their healths; he then turned to Kneebone and the others, who extended their hands towards him, and raised it to his lips.
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