It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. "Tom," continued Kneebone, calling to the shop-boy, "don't go home. \" Lucy replied sardonically. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. She had no inkling of that insupportable wrong. Holding down the light, he perceived that the wounded man had risen to the surface, and was trying to clamber up the slippery sides of the well.
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