"First, because he is Maltese, Mr. Pathurst; and next, because he
talks Cockney like a native. And depend upon it, he heard Bow Bells
before he lisped his first word."
"And has O'Sullivan bought Andy Fay's sea-boots yet?" I queried.
It was at this moment that Miss West emerged upon the poop. She was
as rosy and vital as ever, and certainly, if she had been sea-sick,
she flew no signals of it. As she came toward me, greeting me, I
could not help remarking again the lithe and springy limb-movement
with which she walked, and her fine, firm skin. Her neck, free in a
sailor collar, with white sweater open at the throat, seemed almost
redoubtably strong to my sleepless, jaundiced eyes. Her hair, under
a white knitted cap, was smooth and well-groomed. In fact, the
totality of impression she conveyed was of a well-groomedness one
would not expect of a sea-captain's daughter, much less of a woman
who had been sea-sick. Life!--that is the key of her, the essential
note of her--life and health. I'll wager she has never entertained a
morbid thought in that practical, balanced, sensible head of hers.
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