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Hoopdriver drew his watch hastily. "I say," said Mr. Hoopdriver, showing
it to her, "don't you think we ought to be getting on?"
His face was flushed, his ears bright red. She ascribed his confusion
to modesty. He rose with a lion added to the burthens of his conscience,
and held out his hand to assist her. They walked down into Cosham
again, resumed their machines, and went on at a leisurely pace along
the northern shore of the big harbour. But Mr. Hoopdriver was no longer
happy. This horrible, this fulsome lie, stuck in his memory. Why HAD he
done it? She did not ask for any more South African stories, happily--at
least until Porchester was reached--but talked instead of Living
One's Own Life, and how custom hung on people like chains. She talked
wonderfully, and set Hoopdriver's mind fermenting. By the Castle, Mr.
Hoopdriver caught several crabs in little shore pools. At Fareham they
stopped for a second tea, and left the place towards the hour of sunset,
under such invigorating circumstances as you shall in due course hear.
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