“Never—but, by Jove, you had a narrow escape,” Ennison exclaimed. But recently he had asked God to pile it all on him; and God had added this, with a fresh portion for Ruth. She had nothing to say for herself. ‘That’s right, you bone idle do-nothings. Come home alone. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. Which is also puzzling. It may be, it probably will all come to, nothing.
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