He frowned. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Drummond nodded. In a moment the brisk evening breeze caught the lank canvas and bellied it taut. ‘Eh bien?’ She thrust again, from the same place. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna’s windows. Supper was over. That night she found a ship bound to sail for the heathen nation called America. “There was a man called Montague Hill,” she said hoarsely, “but he is dead.
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