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Updated: May 22, 2025
Even as a boy in his home at Southpool in Devonshire, upon a wooded creek of the Salcombe estuary, he had always been conscious of a certain restlessness, a desire to sail down that creek and out over the levels of the sea, a dream of queer outlandish countries and peoples beyond the dark familiar woods.
It was the melody to which Durrance had listened in the street of Tewfikieh on the eve of his last journey into the desert; and which Ethne Eustace had played only the night before in the quiet drawing-room at Southpool. It was the only melody which Feversham knew. When he had done Nejoumi began again. "You are a spy."
There was something touching and noble in the gesture, and, thoroughly ashamed of himself for once, the fellow shook the proffered hand, and slunk away. They entered the broad river at Southpool. "I must leave the ship when we get to port, Roberts," said Eric. "I doubt whether you'll let you," answered Roberts, jerking his finger towards the skipper's cabin. "Why?"
Never were voyages so merry as those of the steamer that day, and even the "good-byes" that had to be said at Southpool were lightly borne. From thence the boys quickly scattered to the different railways, and the numbers of those who were travelling together got thinner and thinner as the distance increased.
She was Durrance's neighbour at Southpool, and by a year or two his elder a tall woman, remarkable for the many shades of her thick brown hair and the peculiar pallor on her face. But at this moment the face had brightened, there was a hint of colour in the cheeks. "I have news for you," said Durrance. "Two special items. One, Harry Feversham is to be married." "To whom?" asked the lady, eagerly.
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