” “I’ve told you,” he said. “I wrote it for you. Montague Hill?” Annabel put her hand suddenly to her throat and steadied herself with the back of a chair. She could see over a waist high stone wall into the miniature courtyard, complete with benches only a small child could sit upon, one which had been broken in half, its two pieces left unjoined on the sandy ground. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre.
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