“FAIL!” she said. She loved to walk through the gardens, graced with columns that loomed overhead. “Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. You are not with the Kent militia, are you?’ ‘West Kent, yes. Sometimes at sea a skipper will order his men to trim, batten down the hatches, and clear the deck of all litter.
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