It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. It’s just hard to keep things from her. Indeed, if he had been ignorant of it, the sound of voices which he could faintly distinguish, would have served as a caution to him. Never had she seemed to him so much like Anna. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica.
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