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Anna leaned over so that he needed only to whisper. “You are coming in, aren’t you, Sydney?” “If I may,” he answered. In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl. Thames Street was wholly impassable. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. CHAPTER XXI McClintock's island was twelve miles long and eight miles wide, with the shape of an oyster.
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