“It was poison—why not?” she answered. —Strype's Stow. Meantime, as the doctor was splitting his breakfast orange, he heard a commotion in his office, two rooms removed: volleys of pidgin English, one voice in protest, the other dominant. And it is not at all his affair. He heard the panting of the donkey-engine, then the slithering of the anchor chains. He barely shook the rose petals from her hair. Gerald, intent on his trail, ignored it. Her pulses began to race. She admired his backside as he fetched a blue towel from his bathroom.
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