"All's bowman, my covey. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. She set her fingers in the hair and tugged, drawing him to a sitting posture and stooping so that her eyes would be on the level with his when he awoke. Next to the executioner stood his wife—the former Mrs. Every so often a wall of water, thin and jadecoloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships.
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