‘But—’ ‘Nothing at all for you to worry your head over,’ said the captain, moving to try and usher her forth. A momentary petrifaction, and terror had lent wings to her feet. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. He sat down beside her and stroked her hair. Wood in the deepest mourning. It is the bottom of the cup, where all the dregs appear to settle.
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