"What's that to you?" retorted Jack, surlily. I might utter a million, and still I doubt if I could make you understand. Her foster father, Larry, was the hard working son-of-a-bitch type with a disdain for suits. She let them fall and sped to the companion, where she stood for a moment, the moonlight giving her a celestial touch. And this was an adventure of which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South Seas. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms.
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