Spurlock bent his head to the rail. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say. “You must be the Miss Pellissier of whom David has told me so much,” he said, shyly. John’s demeanor shifted. Following her lead, he fortified himself with a swallow of the excellent Madeira before responding. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance.
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