You know—I worship you. "Heaven help us!" he exclaimed; "we were mad to neglect the old sailor's advice. Old saltwater was right. A man's laced hat,—whether adopted from the caprice of the moment, or habitually worn, we are unable to state,—cocked knowingly on her head, harmonized with her masculine appearance. Then they rode off at speed. He stood transfixed. When Captain Darrell's birth is ascertained, I've no doubt he'll turn out a nobleman's son.
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