She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk. You are captain of your soul; don't forget your Henley. Let me make your future for you. "Ay. In Singapore that had been her only dissipation: a dozen pairs of silk stockings. But it was only six-thirty.
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