Every so often a wall of water, thin and jadecoloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships. —There, Mr. Stanley coughed and faced toward the house. Life is morality—life is adventure. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. He inspected the formidable array of rifles and at length walked over to the register. As a matter of fact, I had never spoken to him before in my life.
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