“Your father,” he said, “remarked that all’s well that ends well, and that he was disposed to let bygones be bygones. Do you remember when we went right away, Nigel, and forgot everything? We went down the river past Veraz, and the larks were singing all over those deep brown fields, and the river further on wound its way like a coil of silver across the rich meadowland, and along the hillside vineyards. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. He was now a sophomore at Lincoln, Lucy a Junior, and Shari a Senior. There were menacing possibilities; the thought of them set him a-tremble. Now there is none. Spurlock was by nature orderly, despite his literary activities.
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