207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. “I wondered. About them quickly. He, next, tried to clamber up the flying buttresses and soffits of the pier, in the hope of reaching some of the windows and other apertures with which, as a man-of-war is studded with port-holes, the sides of the bridge were pierced. A film of dust lay upon it; the ink marks were ancient.
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