Once a sick sailor drew three pictures for me and set down every stay and brace and sail—square-rigger, schooner, and sloop. And how can I get into one brief letter the complex accumulated desires of what is now, I find on reference to my diary, nearly sixteen months of letting my mind run on you— ever since that jolly party at Surbiton, where we raced and beat the other boat. To-night all London believes that he was your husband.
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