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He clambered out into the small boat astern, and, casting loose, pulled towards a bright patch of colour in the grey shore wall: a blue quay-door overhung with ivy. The upper windows of the cottage behind it were draped with snowy muslin, and its walls, coated with recent whitewash, shamed its neighbours to right and left.
"Put it down to love o' my country, if you like; and take my advice or leave it, just as you please. I'm not asking for money, so you won't be any the poorer." "Off the Quay, did you say? Has the house a Quay-door?" "It has: but you needn't to trouble about that. They can't escape that way, I promise you, having no boat alongside."
His destiny was actually launched on the full spring tide that sucked the crevices of the grey wall at the garden's end. A slight sound drew the minister's gaze down from the moon to the quay-door. Its upper flap still stood open, allowing a square of moonlight to pierce the straight black shadow of the garden wall.
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