The lad looked alarmed. She felt his erection against her naked thigh. She charged boldly into the space of Miss Miniver’s rhetorical pause. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. ‘But—’ ‘Nothing at all for you to worry your head over,’ said the captain, moving to try and usher her forth. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre.
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