If, around noon, a coconut proa landed, the boys made no effort to unload. “There is my aunt,” she said. The cloth was removed, and Wood, drawing the table as near the window as possible—for it was getting dusk —put on his spectacles, and opened that sacred volume from which the best consolation in affliction is derived, and left the lovers—for such they may now be fairly termed—to their own conversation. Whatever you need to do, it is your business.
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