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’ ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ Gerald uttered in a rueful tone. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume. In the obscurity in which it was now seen, it looked like a prison, and, indeed, it was Jonathan's fancy to make it resemble one as much as possible.
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