“I imagine,” Sir John said, “that your sister would acquaint him with it. “I suppose most people’s letters are queer. The blouse dried nicely, it would only need a touch of starch and a little ironing. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. "Whatever you like, Hoddy," she agreed, wiping the sweat from her forehead.
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