“I’m so glad you’re here, Peter,” she said. The odour of coconut prevailed, delicately but abidingly; for, save for the occasioned pleasure junket, The Tigress was a copra carrier, shell and fibre. She had hardly noticed the loss of her dagger, so strong had been the waves of relief that attacked her on hearing that Jack had returned from death’s door. There were perches inside where she could crouch and labyrinths underneath where she could hide. Her back arched slightly in response. They thought that she was her own mother.
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