’ ‘We are not all of us so empty-headed, Melusine,’ pleaded Miss Froxfield. You don’t know the thoughts we have; the things we can do and say. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape.
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