He gave an order, the proa was floated and the sail run up. Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. Everybody, he felt, must be listening behind their papers. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. And so bitterly did the carpenter reproach himself with his neglect, that he resolved, at all risks, to go back in search of it. One only. Can’t ask the gent to go abroad and condone a bigamy.
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