“Mary! What’s going on! Why are you crying?!” He commanded an answer in a worried and slightly irritated tone. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. "Had I not been the guilty wretch I am," he cried, bursting into an agony of tears, "she would never have died thus.
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