She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. But we're neglecting the punch all this time. If you don’t like it, I won’t be mad, I promise. ” She looked at her toes. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. “You are a funny, a very funny young lady,” he said, “but we waste time here.
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