“It’s still a marvel to me that we are to be forgiven,” she said, turning. Presently she saw Spurlock on the way to the lagoon. Young, not much older than she was: she was twenty and he was possibly twenty-four. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. She kept her face downcast. He stamped his last letter as Annabel entered. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter.
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