“I’m five years older than you, and no end wiser, being a man. Captain Hilary Roding and his inamorata, Miss Lucilla Froxfield. "Jack!" she cried, raising her head. She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. Here your nephew will speedily be thrown. You call it a lot of nicknames—“Babs” and “Bibs” and “Viddles” and “Vee”; you whack at it playfully, and it whacks you back. Does that boy live in some sort of personal cave? Like, I think he might even be thinking about asking you out again! That is what I think. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him.
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