She rapped on Michelle’s door loudly. 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. “Ugh!” she said. Try your luck with Jarvis Remenham—if you will. Michelle looked at Lucy's feet, still in the ugly brown loafers she had worn since last year. “Your father is in the study and wishes to speak to you.
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