He remained standing by the stem of the proa, his glance roving investigatingly. ‘It is not your affair. Or felt it. Sheppard. ’ He fitted the hat onto her head, and was aware as he did so of her eyes watching his face. Smith, placing his hand on his breast. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. He looked like the shadow of himself—thin, feeble, hollow-eyed—his beard unshorn—nothing could be more miserable.
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