Every so often a wall of water, thin and jadecoloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships. And this great mellow place, this London, now was hers, to struggle with, to go where she pleased in, to overcome and live in. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. She paused for a moment. Manning, in an earnest voice, and waved his hand to the alley of mauve and purple. “It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. A man came out, and walking recklessly, almost cannoned into Ennison.
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