Marina had retired to bed, drinking wine slowly, sleeping when she was not drinking. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation. The coffin was lowered into the grave, and the mourners departed. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries. I suspect he has been at work upon those he has on.
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