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We met dissecting dogfish. He hated horizons. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. We can’t be lovers in the ordinary sense, but we can be great and intimate friends. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers. Lucy saw that perhaps she had been attracted to Martin all along. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night.
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