“I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. 47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. Where was the expected message from this captain, who had promised to send her word at the instant Gerald returned to town. ‘Don’t fob me off, boy.
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