She had never been able to discover where her father had hidden his shaving mirror. Besides, you cannot tell where it will end. To go to him, to console him! But she stirred not from her hiding place. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay.
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