He read "The Beachcombers" to McClintock that night after coffee; and when he had done, the old trader nodded. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. Having read the three first verses of the impressive service appointed for the burial of the dead, he returned to the church, whither the coffin was carried through the south-western door, and placed in the centre of the aisle—Mr. "No such thing," rejoined Thames. “She has improved her style,” someone declared. Man or woman. Mr Jarvis’s sister, that was. Her heart full of dread, she dragged on it. The other kicked over the traces a bit, made rather a hit with her singing at some of those French places, and went the pace in a mild, ladylike sort of way.
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