To-day he selected the girl, and gave her the lead-chair. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. But she was not sure just how to reach it. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. Ann Veronica had had some training at the Tredgold College in disentangling threads from confused statements, and she had a curious persuasion that in all this fluent muddle there was something—something real, something that signified. .
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