‘Beg pardon, miss, but I’m told as how—’ She broke off, her eyes widening, her jaw dropping open. D'ye hear. ‘Damnation! Too late. 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. She pulled, he rose to his feet. The simile started a laugh in his throat. His features were regular, and finely-formed; his complexion bright and blooming,—a little shaded, however, by travel and exposure to the sun; and, with a praiseworthy contempt for the universal and preposterous fashion then prevailing, of substituting a peruke for the natural covering of the head, he allowed his own dark-brown hair to fall over his shoulders in ringlets as luxuriant as those that distinguished the court gallant in Charles the Second's days—a fashion, which we do not despair of seeing revived in our own days. “Don’t you get it, Lucy? I’ve always thought he was an idiot. While you talked I was only making our plans.
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