And they could talk, they found; and never once, it seemed, did their meaning and intention hitch. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. At length the task was done, and she jabbed the needle into a cushion, folded the coat, and rose. “Well, I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. There's something queer about that young man; but we'll never be able to find out what it is. To-night I locked up my flat at six o’clock.
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