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. "Whose child can this be?" "How the devil should I know!" replied Jonathan gruffly. Kneebone cordially on the shoulder, and began to laugh as heartily as any of them. Certainly not a gentlewoman. His glance came up again and met hers. Why did I not realise it at once? It just shows how one should not judge by appearances.
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