She was instinctively aware of him as she had been of Julian. He heard the struggle on the landing, the fall of the heavy body, the groan,—and excited almost to frenzy by his fears, he succeeded in forcing open the door. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. It was an unspoken curfew in the Beck house on week nights.
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