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. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. Every girl in the world practically, except a few of us who teach or type-write, and then we’re underpaid and sweated—it’s dreadful to think how we are sweated!” She had lost her generalization, whatever it was. No more did she offer her forehead for the good-night kiss.
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