"Remember the devil!" retorted Terence, who had recovered his natural audacity. Lucy grabbed his shirtsleeve, whispering on tiptoe. Strongly impregnated with the mingled odours of tobacco, ale, brandy, and other liquors, the atmosphere was almost stifling. If, around noon, a coconut proa landed, the boys made no effort to unload. Saint Giles's Round-house. “Why would she do that? Why does she care? That’s a waste of her time. She looked at the suitcase sadly and stashed it underneath her bed. She was aware of him—a silk-hatted, shiny-black figure on the opposite side of the Avenue; and then, abruptly and startlingly, he crossed the road and saluted and spoke to her.
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