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On Wednesday, May 4, I embarked on the same Transatlantic steamer, the America, the phantom vessel to which my journey had brought good luck. But it had no longer the same commander. The new one's name was Santelli. He was as little and fair-complexioned as his predecessor was big and dark. But he was as charming, and a nice conversationist.
I was so impatient to land that I called for the doctor and asked him to send me to sleep for eighteen hours. He gave me twelve hours sleep with a strong dose of chloral, and I felt stronger and calmer for affronting the shock of happiness. Santelli had promised that we should arrive on the evening of the 14th.
I was ready, and had been walking up and down distractedly for an hour when an officer came to ask whether I would not go on to the bridge with the commander, who was waiting for me. With my sister I went up in haste, and soon understood from the embarrassed circumlocutions of the amiable Santelli that we were too far off to hope to make the harbour that night. I began to cry.
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