For a space he rode the whirligig. Everett’s gaze dropped to the papers in his hand. The man pulled up. Once a sick sailor drew three pictures for me and set down every stay and brace and sail—square-rigger, schooner, and sloop. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. She could not risk going in the door, lest she run into Larry or Cathy drinking a nocturnal glass of milk or Mike raiding the refrigerator for snacks. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said.
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