Their talk drifted to the beauty of music, and they took that up again at tea-time. He lit a cigarette and loitered about. “I don’t want you to do it, to go on talking to me. ‘To where has he gone off?’ ‘No use asking me,’ shrugged the captain. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son.
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