He was not a sailor. His reputation was slightly tainted by his marriage to her mother, an exotic blue-eyed raven-haired beauty, a Gypsy doll with a clandestine heritage. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed the faculties. She had lost it. Sanguine they were not. "You are all right?"—anxiously. "We must marry at once! The doctor may put me on the boat and force you to remain behind, otherwise. Suspicion was in his face.
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