She turned the television off. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. ‘You don’t favour her, bar the black hair. He smiled tenderly. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. “Take her limbs again. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity.
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