Part 7 Then one day a little thing happened that clothed itself in significance. The sun-canvas was stowed; and Spurlock's chair was set forward the foremast, where the bulging jib cast a sliding blue shadow over him. Let us have no more of this humbug. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. There’d only be endless rows if I was at home.
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