‘Who’d believe me? And I’d have to tell my part in it all, too. Shotbolt, who had in some degree recovered from the effects of his previous mortification, was thrown into an ecstacy of delight, and could not sufficiently exult over the prisoner. She heard the ocean in the distance, waves crashing on the beach, high tide. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat.
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