Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened. ‘You would have a history of my life? Very well. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. But I’m generously ignorant of gems. But I've stacks of books and a grand piano-player. 1703. A little Madeira seemed to recover her enough to resume the discussion.
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