She romanticized, imagining a life on the High Seas. I am—’ ‘Like me, entirely English. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch.
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