He nodded silently, too full for words. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay. Just as Jack gained the entrance, he heard a man's footstep behind him, and aware that the slightest indiscretion would betray him, he halted, uncertain what to do. The emerald wings, slashed with scarlet and yellow, wheeling and swooping about her head, there among the wild plantain.
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