“I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. 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 Americans laugh at our custom of honouring our ancestors, our many-times great grandfathers.
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