Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. The latter had delivered himself from one of his assailants, the attendant, Davies. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose.
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