It was intolerable to think that he might overhear words and phrases. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. It is like some accident. You are my prisoner, murderer. When she tried to speak she found it difficult. The steps, even the pavements, were invaded by little knots of loungers driven outside by the unusual heat of the evening, most of them in evening dress, or what passed for evening dress in Montague Street. ‘You will like to marry me, yes?’ she pursued.
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