She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. You see, the trouble is that the matter is in dispute. But stand by and hear such things said about my late mistress’s daughter, I won’t.
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