‘What’s this? Impertinence! French manners, is it?’ ‘Grace à vous,’ Melusine threw at him fiercely. The books would be soaked and ruined in the rain anyway through the thin skin of the pack. The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. Every so often a wall of water, thin and jadecoloured, would rise up over the port bow, hesitate, and fall smacking amidships.
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